Love and Lust
by FallenAngelCyril
Summary: Tactics Ogre: Let Us Cling Together.  A series of unrelated one-shots featuring various characters and pairings. Most romantic pairings are non-canonical.
1. Lies:  CatiuaTartaros

This fiction is a series of relatively unconnected oneshots featuring various, mostly non-canonical, pairings, in various character perspectives and points of view. It is based off of the PSP translation. If you've any particular requests for a pairing, let me know.

This piece in particular is from Catiua in a first person point of view, taking place in the background of the events of Chapter 3L and 4L. It's meant to elaborate on her somewhat radical change of character, and give her some (unrealistic) reasoning for staying with Lanselot Tartaros and going from Light-only to a Sword-using, elemental casting Dark Priest.

I do not own Tactics Ogre.

_**Lies**_

* * *

><p>Lanselot Tartaros is a dangerous man. His words are smooth as silk, yet stick with me like some atrocious mixture of sap and tar. When he speaks, I cannot help but listen; his words promise a brighter future and a continued strength for Valeria, his accent and vivid descriptions of what is to come are a sweet melody to my ears. Denam speaks identically to the Lodissian, all promises and dreams. Denam wants a better future, and revenge on the Dark Knights for what occurred at Golyat, but look how he ended up: condoning the deaths of thousands at Balmamusa, assisting in an assassination plot against his liege Lord, and being so devoted to his country that he abandoned even the one who was most loyal to him.<p>

I'm so confused. I want to hate Tartaros, yet it is he who opens my eyes. He shows me the truth, and is leading me, and Valeria, on a path to a stronger, more secure future. He alerts me to Denam's lies and manipulations, and demonstrates how the man I once called 'brother' cares not at all for me, but only what I represent. To Denam, I am a key to the hearts of the people, as well as a representation of his own past. I "humanize" the unknown commander in the eyes of the masses. Tartaros destroyed Golyat, true, but I find myself apathetic to it now that I've stood by his side. When I met with him in Phidoch for the first time, before the Balmamusa massacre, I felt nothing but hate, but now that rage is gone now filled with. . .something else. It was not my family he destroyed, nor my father who lies dead by his hand. I've no reason to hold disdain for him.

Maybe if I repeat the words often enough, I'll eventually believe myself.

* * *

><p>I'm not sure what provoked it, but I've started comparing Tartaros to Denam. As I feel myself distancing from my "brother," I get closer to the elder male, to the point where my gaze lingers a half-second too long, and my thoughts stray into unacceptable familiarity; I am using him to promote peace only - nothing else. Yet why do I keep thinking about the Loslorien Templar, and why has he built such a secure foundation within me? Denam and Tartaros are very similar, in manner and action. There is love and devotion for their country that surpasses all else. They've a determination that causes them to be willing to sacrifice everything, even the country's own people. Lanselot isn't as efficient as he could be, often spending the time to placate his followers and can even be seen as merciful in some of his actions. He knows the importance of putting on a good front, which Denam mastered early in his career as the "Hero of Golyat." Both act as a motivator for their followers, being not only their leader, but an idol who spawns order and unity.<p>

But the similarities make the differences that much more obvious. Where Denam is weak, Tartaros is strong. Where young Denam is uncomfortable, the elder Lanselot is confident. Where Denam is insecure, Tartaros is not only secure, but elegant. Denam is a boy, but Tartaros is the man he will grow up to be. I cannot help but be attracted by the connection the two share. I want to hate myself for it, but, despite my anger, some feelings for Denam persist. I must continually work to lock them away, as they are a weakness and will do nothing but hurt my cause in the future.

* * *

><p>I heard some of the Knight Commanders speaking, once. They keep their distance from me, but one can learn much through eavesdropping. The older man, Balxephon, says that the murder of Ronwey and rise of Denam is too much of a coincidence to simply ignore. I know the truth in his words, a truth Loslorien would be blind to. Denam <em>did<em> plot against Ronwey to secure power in his own hands, at the urgings of Leonar. It was a dangerous gamble, one of many actions I've recently disagreed with, and one of many plans where Denam has put the ends before the means. I'm frightened at the monster he has become and of the Ogre he will turn into. Perhaps he is no longer human at all.

On the subject of the Commanders, I found motivation in the most surprising of places: the female Templar, Ozma. We do not often speak with each other, but I watch her practice whenever she comes to Phidoch from Heim, which is unfortunately not as often as I'd like. She is beautiful not only in appearance, but also with her spells and her sword, often using both at once. I pale in comparison. I've decided to better myself, practice my swordplay, and to learn to cast elemental spells. I've no need to rely on anyone any longer.

* * *

><p>When Lanselot thinks no one is looking, I watch as he sits, staring into nothingness and lost in thought. He catches me watching him, once, and gives me a strange, unreadable look. He looks more like a lost little boy than I'd have ever expected of a man of his caliber. His fingers caress the hilt of Ambicion unconsciously, almost as if searching for something. Without a word, Tartaros stands to leave, but looks up at me, his lone eye filled with dark shadows from his past. As he walks by he gently pushes my hair behind my ear without a word. Is that a sigh I hear, or is my imagination running away with me?<p>

* * *

><p>I've been training more, recently. Despite being nowhere near the skill of even the weakest of the Loslorien Templars, it has given me more confidence. I feel as if I can stand on my own feet. To blend sword skill with my newly trained elemental magic, I feel as if I'm starting a new chapter in my life. I've said goodbye to the Catiua who clings to the church and her brother, and in her place I welcome a new woman who will rule Valeria, even if I bend knee to Lodis to claim peace, unable to do so on my own. Lanselot tells me of my responsibilities as Princess often; it's a daunting task and, in all honesty, I'm not sure I'm up to it. There are times I can barely focus my mind around all of the duties, let alone act the theatre the politicians and commons demand of me. He must have seen my trepidation, as he consoles me that I certainly will not be ruling alone, but with the steady hand of a Lodissian "ambassador." I ask him if he would stay in Valeria and he seems amused, declining, saying that he had business in Lodis once his work here was complete. I felt my stomach sink then and I am surprised at my disappointment.<p>

My newfound confidence is also a curse. I've gotten overconfident, claims Tartaros, and should not base my support on my blood alone. He claims I must show the people, with achievements rather than bloodline, that I am a capable ruler. Frustrated, I snap back, asking him of what achievements I've claim to. He replies, with a subtle annoyance, "Exactly."

It hits me hard, as he is completely correct. I've no reason, other than a fallen bloodline, to be with Lodis. I'm not a leader, let alone have any experience with it beyond what I've watched from Denam. From the start I knew that I was taken by the Lodissians simply to act a tool for Tartaros, but to have him openly speak of me with little regard for my personal feelings wounds me. All of the work I've done to improve myself, and he still has yet to recognize me as more than a instrument to further his machinations. I beg for acceptance and acknowledgment, and get neither.

I've heard aging women from Golyat say that the more you love someone, the more it hurts when you're rejected. Yes. Yes, Denam and Lanselot Tartaros are very much alike.

* * *

><p>Please review if you enjoyed it, or see any glaring flaws that should be fixed.<p>

I'm thinking of ArycelleVyce next.


	2. Pretend: ArycelleVyce

This piece is an ArycelleVyce pairing, with some one-sided VyceCatiua on the side. It occurs during 2L, after the battle with Gousin, the Ninja with a crush on Catiua, but before Denam's skirmish with Vyce in Rhime. Of particular note is that I've taken Arycelle's relationship with Leonar - usually only elaborated on during the Chaos path- and have used it for the Law path as well.

I can't say I'm too happy with how this one-shot turned out. It was a good idea in theory, but actually getting it down in writing was very difficult. Law's Vyce is extremely hard to characterize properly. I hope you enjoy it more than I do.

_**Pretend**_

* * *

><p>Twang.<p>

The lone arrow made a satisfying "thunk" as it hit its target. The arrow didn't land nearly as close to center as Arycelle would have liked; her distraction was keeping her from being as accurate as she should have been. The sound of releasing bowstrings and arrows hitting their targets had become her lullaby in recent weeks. After Balmamusa, Arycelle practiced until her fingers were raw and bloody from drawing the bowstring. She had been passionate before, but the Thunder Maiden had quickly started using her practice to distract herself from her problems.

Soon after Balmamusa, Arycelle had heard rumors of a new force forming under a survivor of Balmamusa, one Vyce Bozeck. He spoke how of the "Hero of Golyat" had worked with Leonar and the Duke to murder the innocents of Balmamusa. As rumors became more and more frequent, Arycelle knew she had been betrayed. It was not only by the man she loved, Leonar, but by her Duke and even her own people. Leonar loved his people, and that devotion was what had first attracted Arycelle to him, but it also left him completely blind to all else. He focused on his country first and everything else, including himself, second, so naturally Arycelle was tossed to the side, relatively unimportant to him other than being a tool to use for her leadership skills. Arycelle, too, loved the Walister, so she had been willing to accept her position as a tool, temporarily, until the Walister had won their freedom. Leonar would come to love her after the war was completed, Arycelle told herself. But Balmamusa changed everything. Leonar had agreed to, and went through with, unquestionably horrible acts. That night, her brother had been murdered, along with countless other helpless innocents, all for the sake of this ridiculous war for power.

And so she had left the Walister Resistance and found her new calling in the New Walister Alliance. At first her fight had only been for revenge for her brother, but Vyce spoke gentle words that sang to her ears and heart. Vyce spoke of a future filled with equality, where every man has a say, and of where the corrupt nobles did not oppress the weaker commons.

Soon, Arycelle began to believe in what the New Walister Alliance was fighting for. Vyce was not only charismatic and handsome - with a touch of honest sadness that was obviously genuine, but also intelligent, dangerous, and willing to fight the battle that others had long shunned. Even if it meant splitting the Walister, Vyce was willing to risk everything for a better future for their people. She respected him, and in turn Arycelle knew she'd earned Vyce's respect for her own actions, even if often brash.

Despite having a new goal, Arycelle still felt as lost as ever. She felt like she was stuck in an infinite loop of emotions, where the only thing that had meaning was the next battle. In her maelstrom of emotions, two things were clear: She _would _kill Denam "Hero of Golyat" Pavel, and she wanted to save her country, even if it meant sacrificing her life.

* * *

><p>Vyce was exhausted, feeling torn in every direction at once. Many cried out for his aid, but his hands were tied. Others cried for vengeance, and while Vyce definitely intended on fulfilling that for them, even the full force of the New Walister Alliance didn't yet hold a candle to Ronwey's Resistance. The New Walister Allliance was too small and fragile now to face them head on. For now the Alliance must remain vultures, tearing off scraps and remains, weakening the parts before even touching the whole. That was not even the beginning of his problems. Vyce was constantly on very little sleep, often being woken every hour or two at the return of his shadows and with news from his whisperers.<p>

But in truth, as hard as it was to admit, Vyce had never felt more alive. He was no longer in Denam's shadow; he was his own man. This newfound sense of freedom made Vyce more passionate than he had ever been. Yet despite his life's new meaning, Vyce was lonely. Catiua, dear Catiua. If Vyce lied to himself, he could almost be convinced that Catiua was being forced into staying with Denam. A more realistic scenario was that she felt obligated, simply out of kinship. Did Vyce truly mean so little to Catiua that she would not come to him, despite knowing the dark path her brother tread? It hurt, knowing that while he would give everything for Catiua, she kept him at a distance. Vyce knew that Catiua disliked Denam's decision at Balmamusa just as much as Vyce did, and whisperers spoke of quarrels between the siblings. Vyce needed a way to tear them apart. He did not want Catiua to be hurt, but Catiua, as stubborn as she was, would end up hurt simply because she did not think her actions through. He needed some way to show her that relying on Denam would only end in pain, as it had for Vyce.

Vyce had lost his "brother" and the woman he had long desired slipped from his fingers, but in return he had gained understanding, compassion, and, despite his longing for personal freedom, a respect for responsibility. This hatred and rivalry between he and Denam had to be put aside, at least until the problems with the Walister and Galgastani were solved. In the end, despite his new responsibility and power, Vyce was just as helpless as he was before Golyat had burned. He couldn't effectively move any forces unless he knew what Denam was up to. It was so frustrating, having to wait for the Resistance's action before making his own, especially as it reminded him of his past in Denam's shadow. Pounding the table in front of him with a fist, Vyce stood up quickly. Thinking of his own helplessness always angered him. If only Catiua had listened to Gousin. If only Gousin wasn't dead! Damn that fool, he knew better than to rush into the Resistance like that!

Stalking out of his room, Vyce ignored the shocked looks of the watchmen as he left to get fresh air. Unsure of what exactly he was planning to do outside, Vyce wandered aimlessly to the town's training grounds. If he worked up a good sweat, he was bound to tire himself out and not think such dark thoughts. Vyce was well-practiced already, so this was a simple distraction.

As he approached the field, Vyce noticed a lone form off to the side with a weapon. Vyce slowed, on defense. Grasping his dagger, he approached the lone warrior slowly, before finally calming when he recognized the outline of Arycelle. She'd not noticed him yet, and Vyce knew how dangerous it was to surprise the Thunder Maiden. He let his footsteps fall heavily as he approached, making sure she had no reason for shock. After a time, she slowed her shots down, letting Vyce know that she'd heard him, but she did not stop or even turn in his direction.

Such a devoted woman, that one. Stubborn, devoted, and passionate; Arycelle reminded Vyce of Catiua in that sense. She had been a loyal ally in the development of the New Walister Alliance and stood by Vyce's side even when she disagreed with him. She loved the Walister, but her obsession for revenge was slowly overtaking her. Vyce openly admitted that he wanted vengeance, but personal revenge would get in the way of his long-term goals. He simply could not risk it, at least until the New Walister Alliance was secure.

Vyce was nowhere near as skilled at a two-handed bow as Arycelle was. In fact, Vyce could think of very few who were. Instead he picked through the nearby weapon rack for a more familiar crossbow, and stood beside Arycelle, taking on a target near hers. Once again, she did not stop, or even seem to care that Vyce was there. Well, it certainly wasn't his problem. Turning towards the targets, he shot a few bolts, none of which landing anywhere near the center. They were close enough that it would kill a man with ease, had the target been human, but far away enough to alert any experienced Archer to his own inexperience. Frowning, Vyce released few more test shots with slightly more accuracy, only to be stopped by the soft laughter of Arycelle beside him.

He couldn't remember _ever _hearing Arycelle laugh. Glaring, he lowered his crossbow and looked to Arycelle, noticing she had an amused, albeit sad, smile on her face.

"You're helpless." She sighed.

Arycelle put her hands out, motioning for Vyce to give her the crossbow. Though somewhat confused, Vyce obliged her. She lifted the bow up with what he could tell were years of honed practice, and shot at her own target with more accuracy in one shot than he had been able to get in all of his put together, but still not quite hitting the center. Despite what seemed like an impressive shot to Vyce, he heard her curse, which he attributed to her own lack of accuracy.

Arycelle continued: "You're distracted, but not only that, you need more practice. Try balancing your weight differently, or getting a different bow entirely. These two-handed crossbows don't suit you; I'd suggest trying the lighter, one-handed ones. They're less clunky and better for beginners."

She emphasized the latter part, not necessarily out of cruelty, just a blunt truth. Vyce was rather new at the use of crossbows and Arycelle was one of the best. It was her overall tone that hit Vyce harder than her words. Arycelle spoke to him with confidence and a familiarity he couldn't quite place. Her tone demanded he listen, but was also soft enough that it gave the impression of choice. Vyce knew better than that; Arycelle's tone was the same Catiua had used on him for years. There was no "choice" involved, it was "listen or make her angry."

Nodding in compliance, Vyce went over to the rack and picked up one of the smaller crossbows, waiting for Arycelle's motion of approval. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, but she moved out of the way, and stood behind him, showing Vyce ways to position himself for balance, strength, distance, and accuracy. Vyce wondered if Arycelle was aware at how much trust he was showing her by letting her stand so close to his back. After a time, seemingly satisfied that Vyce wouldn't shoot his own hand off, Arycelle went back to her own target and the soft song of arrows firing started again. There was a comfortable silence between the two, almost relaxing, and he was beginning to understand why Arycelle spent so much time out here.

As they practiced, Vyce realized how similar he and Arycelle were. The similarity was not only for their goals and struggle, but their recent history. Arycelle's brother was murdered, and her lover, Leonar, ripped away from her by responsibility. If Vyce was honest with himself, the woman he had long desired as his lover, Catiua, was ripped from him by responsibility to Denam. If Vyce was downright blunt, and he absolutely hated to admit it, his own "brother," Vyce winced at the thought, had left him as well. It was physically painful to even compare Denam to Arycelle's brother, but he could not ignore the parallels in their conflict.

At the realization, he finally understood how lonely Arycelle must be. While Vyce was busy as the leader of the New Walister Alliance, Arycelle didn't have that luxury. She was a warrior, not a politician. At least Vyce had distractions, while Arycelle was left on her own devices, likely mulling over her dark thoughts all day while on the field practicing. It was no wonder that Arycelle was consumed with vengeance, she thought of nothing but fighting all day. If Vyce hadn't been motivated to form the New Walister Alliance, he too might have been overwhelmed with thoughts of vengeance.

Vyce felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the woman beside him and stopped firing his crossbow entirely to stare at Arycelle. She understood everything he was going through, and yet he had been callous and distant with her. No wonder the woman spent her days out here alone, practicing! She was trying to find something to focus on that was not her pain.

Realizing he had been standing there staring silently for an uncomfortably long period, Vyce finally put down his crossbow and approached at the woman standing beside him. Surprised, Arycelle lowered her own bow, a questioning expression filling her features. She looked as if she was to speak, but Vyce gently caressed her cheek with his hand before any words came, and spoke softly to her.

"You don't need to pretend around me. I know what you're going through."

Arycelle withdrew from him with a backwards stumble, dropping her bow. Her expression turned unreadable, emotions erratically flying over her features, changing before the last one even fully expressed itself. She placed her hand on her face where Vyce had just touched her, and looked down at the ground, lost in thought. It was a moment before she spoke again, having regained her composure. Her hand remained on her cheek.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He knew this game, as it was yet another one Catiua played: never let males know anything is wrong, always appear strong and wear a façade of self-control. Vyce also knew how to deal with this reaction.

"You're sad and lonely. You've lost your brother and Leonar has abandoned you for his duty. We're alike, you and I."

Vyce trailed off, not wanting to let any more slip. It was hard enough to think about Denam and Catiua, let alone talk about them. But Vyce empathized with the sad Arycelle, understanding her conflicts; it drew him to her and he wanted nothing more than to take away her pain and to see her smile again. He wanted to see _all_ of the Walister smile again Perhaps someday, someone would want Vyce to smile, too, but for now, there was no one who cared enough about him, as a person, to wish for it. Everyone saw him as "Vyce the leader of the New Walister Alliance" but no one saw him as "Vyce the man." Vyce did not want Arycelle to know that pain of being unwanted, and so it had quickly become his new goal to make her a happier woman, who can smile without the sadness of loss and loneliness.

Arycelle's look of confusion remained for a few moments until it finally cleared, understanding the meaning of Vyce's statement. Her expression was unreadable, but were those tears in the corner of her eyes? Vyce couldn't tell, because the dark look passed as if it had never been there. Arycelle quietly replied, finally opening up.

"I see. . .you do understand. The pain, the loss; we've all suffered through it, haven't we? It's what makes the Walister strong."

She paused, pondering if she should continue. Taking advantage of the silence, Vyce closed in on her, taking her hand in his own as he spoke softly, barely above a whisper:

"For tonight, let's pretend: Everything is going to be okay, the Walister are saved. Everyone's alive. Let's pretend the loves we've lost remain at our side, our families whole and flourishing."

In a surprising action, Arycelle closed her calloused hand around his, a smile fluttering across her lips as she met his eyes and replied:

"Us, too. Let's pretend that there's an 'us'."

As with the other dreams, this was one that could never become a reality. Their emotions were too tied up in the past.

But sometimes, it was worthwhile to pretend.

* * *

><p>If you enjoyed, please review. If you find anything drastically, horribly wrong, let me know.<p>

I'm not sure what's next. Maybe something from the Chaos path, since I've done two from Law. CressidaDenam, perhaps? I love Ozma, though. I'd be interested in any suggestions.


	3. Lessons: CressidaDenam

I've tried something interesting with this piece, and you'll immediately see the difference between this and the earlier pieces in the collection. I've never written anything in this style before, so it's more of an experiment than anything.

This is a very, very Chaos Denam oriented story, with a pairing of CressidaDenam, since it was requested.

To give credit where it's due, the idea for this fiction came from a forum post pointing out Denam's hypocrisy about being able to use the Necromancer class. It also attempts to explain why you can only find Necromancer classmarks once you've recruited Cressida.

_**Lessons**_

* * *

><p><strong>Cressida: <strong>"Are you sure you want to do this, Denam? Once you begin, you will never be able to turn back."

**Denam: **"Everything will be fine, Cressida. I simply do what is necessary. Let the hate fall onto me, so that my sister remains pure of such sins."

**C:** "You know I swore to never again touch such arts, why pressure me now?

**D:** "What if you were right? What if there is good to be found in Necromancy? What Nybeth does is evil, but certainly not all will follow his path. Look at how much you've matured now that you're no longer under his tutelage."

**C:** "This is ridiculous. I'm told your father was an Abuna! Are you not supposed to be religious? What of your people's 'Divine Salvation'?"

**D:** "I am not my father. A sentiment I _know _you echo."

**C:**". . .It is not you I worry for, Denam, it is myself. You're a good man, one strong enough not to fall under Necromacy's dark influence. But I know how tempting it is, and I know how easily I could once again fall under its sway."

**D:**"I won't let that happen. If you fall, I'll catch you. I swear it."

**C:** "I don't know how to respond to that. You make it sound so easy. Your confidence is infectious."

**D:** "Then you'll do it?"

**C:** "I didn't say that."

**D:** "One step forward, two back. Cressida, we're going to be here all day."

**C:** "What will your troops say? They will speak badly of me. Of you. I fear for my life if they learn of this. Not all of your soldiers are as saintly as you."

**D:** "No one needs to know other than you and I. I said it once, I'll say it again: I'll protect you."

**C:** "Your words are sweet to my ears, but do you speak to every woman with such a melody?"

**D:** "What are you on about?"

**C:** "Nothing. I hate this, but if you understand the consequences of your actions, I will teach you. Once again, I find myself using this foul art for the betterment of this country and my people."

**D:** "Thank you, Cressida. The sooner we start the better."

**C:** "Then what are we waiting for? Let us find a body - I'm sure it won't be difficult in this war-torn land - and be done with it."

* * *

><p><strong>D:<strong> "This is unpleasant, I'd be out of here sooner rather than later."

**C:** "Stop whining, Denam. You'll get used to this, along with the smell, over time. Discretion is necessary in this art, so unless you've desire to be caught, we must practice alone here. I hope you've some skill in the Dark Magics, for you will need them."

**D:** "I've been practicing with Darkness recently for this reason."

**C:** "Good. It will probably be easier to concentrate if we sit. Come here, Denam. Sit by me. . . .Oh, please, Denam, there's no need for modesty. We're about to get much more intimate with our power than a simple touch of hands. "

**D:** "Are all Galgastani this touchy?"

**C:** "I suppose our culture may seem a bit strange to you."

**D:** "Such familiarity is usually only reserved for relatives or those very close to each other."

**C:** "Are we not very close to each other, Denam? It was you who asked me to train you. I will hold one of your darkest secrets. Do you not fear I will betray you?"

**D:** "No, never. You are not like that."

**C:** "Then I'm honored to have your trust. But enough talk. We've come here for a reason.

. . .

**C:** Do you see what I'm doing? Do you feel my strength?"

**D:** "Yes. It's Dark Magic, but it feels as if you've somehow mixed it with Divine."

**C:** "In a sense you're right. For now that will suffice as an explanation, until you're more used to the arts. After all, normal Dark Magic does not allow for recovery. You try, now. Just hold it like I was."

. . . .

**D:** "I'll never get this."

**C:** "Don't be impatient. This is the biggest hurdle."

**D:** "It's ridiculous. I should be having no problems, all I'm doing is trying to touching the power."

**C:** "It took me weeks of practicing to touch it my first time. Now, I admit I was a child of eight at the time, but-"

**D:** "Wait. Stop. You've been practicing Necromancy since you were that young?"

**C:** "Yes. I grew up with it. My mother practiced, my sister practiced, my father practiced. There were. . .some. . .my father cared for who rejected the art, but we were never close. It was expected of me from a very young age, and I was only too willing to please my parents."

**D:** "'_Some?'_"

**C:** "I'd rather not talk about it."

**D:** "Apologies, Cressida. I didn't mean to pry. So you've had that much responsibility from such a young age?"

**C:** "At the time I didn't understand the responsibility or power in my hands. It wasn't until I was older than I started trying to justify my actions."

**D:** "Your goals are commendable. Better than mine when it comes to this art, though I am loathe to admit it. Recently I find I've been more willing to dabble into things I should not be anywhere near."

**C:** "You'd best not be backing out now, not after you've made me break my oath."

**D:** "Never. I told y-"

**C:** "Ah, stop! You've got it. Hold that. Yes! That's beautiful, Denam. You're very skilled. Now, you must learn to mold and target it. Follow my example. I'll do it slowly."

**D:** "You call_ that_ 'slowly'?"

**C:** "Stop complaining. Follow me. Again. Yes, that's it. Now we must animate the body. Let me guide you, come over here. Stop hesitating."

**D:** "Cressida, don't you think we're a little too close to each other?"

**C:** "I don't see you trying to move away. Why should I? It's comfortable here. Now, you may want to put your hands onto the corpse for your first time."

* * *

><p><strong>C:<strong> "Congratulations, Denam. You're a Necromancer now, or, more accurately, a Necroprentice."

**D:** "Thank you, Cressida. You don't know how much this means to me. I feel like I'm one step closer to saving Valeria. Is there anything I can do to thank you?"

**C:** "You're welcome. All I ask is that you use your power not for yourself, but for your people. I know you're a man who sticks to your principles, so I trust that you will not abuse your lessons in the way that my father and I have."

**D:** "That's not even a request, for it was what I was intending all along. Someday I will find a way to repay you, but for now, can you show me how to Banish this foul thing?"

**C:** "In time. For now, I'd like to remain as we are."

* * *

><p>This is the fluffiest piece I've ever written, and will probably remain so for a long time.<p>

Next up is DenamOz. Not slash, apologies in advance for anyone who was hoping for that, but more of a "companionship" fiction. To elaborate any more would be to spoil it.


	4. Family: DenamOz

First and foremost, my dear Lorelei deserves a huge thanks for her help on this piece. Not only has she listened to my whining, but also gave me some ideas (which I've likely butchered beyond recognition).

This is a beast. This fiction occurs on Chaos Path, but the beginning uses some dialogue and plot elements from 3L as well as a mix of 3L, 3C, and 3N's final battle discussions. You will, however, notice subtle changes that are important to showing how the later parts of this story will deviate from canon. You'll also notice some references to Coda Episode 4's "Half-Past Two" battle, but nothing that will spoil it.

I'd like to make a few things clear before you read this story, as I feel its audience might be rather limited:

- This is _**not**_ slash (Male/Male pairing). Instead, this is a companionship fiction with a general theme of "Family." It is primarily about Denam's growth as a character.

- This story was made by Oz fans, for Oz fans. I am not going to turn Oz into a "good guy," but rather, this fiction elaborates on Oz's unique brand of insanity while also humanizing him, in the same way that the PSP remake humanized the previously unrecruitable Ozma. If you dislike Oz, stay away, as Oz is a major character.

- Do not take this too seriously. It's not meant to be realistic. The entire idea for this fiction came from the thought: "What if Oz dressed Denam up in his corset?" The reason? Oz does drop an "Alluring Corset" that only "adventurous males" can equip. Despite this, be aware that this is_ filled_ with mature themes. This is Oz, after all, and we can't have Oz without blood, death, pain, and torture.

- I've used just about every fanfiction cliché to make this story possible, and even some reverse clichés. Suspend your disbelief.

**Full line breaks**, represent time skips. Time skips can either be in weeks or Months. Months, in the Tactics Ogre world, are known as "Scales."

**Scene shifts** are represented with: \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/ A Scene shift represents only a small passage in time or a change in point of view.

_And so I present to you:_ a "What if" scenario in Phidoch Castle. What if Denam wasn't such a capable commander, instead making a brash and irrational decision in troop placement in the heat of the moment? What if Ozma leaves with Balxephon, as she does in 3L? What if Denam sees just how foolish he's been regarding his sister?

_**Family**_

* * *

><p>Ozma Moh Glacius stood silently within the halls of Phidoch, watching the battle in the courtyard while trying to ignore the fidgeting Balxephon behind her. He didn't hide his nervousness well, and he wasn't even the one watching the battle! The Bakram had fallen, that much was obvious was this point. The Resistance forces would take Phidoch and it was not a matter of "if," but "when." In preparation for battle, Ozma's gaze pierced the field as looked for their commanders. If she could eliminate the chain of command, she at least had a chance of slowing them. The Resistance Leader, Denam Pavel, did not remain in the courtyard that she could tell, but she had able to get some idea of how the enemy ranks were organized - at least, that's what she liked to tell herself. In truth, she was looking for one man in particular.<p>

"The front line is broken, Phidoch will fall." Ozma whispered quietly. It was not something that needed to be spoken, as it was an inevitability that both she and Balxephon accepted. Her fiancée did not respond immediately, instead choosing to bring up the last thing Ozma wanted to discuss.

"Have the rumors any truth to them? Do you see him down there?"

Ozma turned around, angered. Why choose now to mock her? Balxephon had made it very clear that the rumors were simply that; they had no merit. She walked over to the end of the table Balxephon was sitting at and slammed her hands onto the end, about to let him know exactly what she thought of his comment. Before she could even begin, the door was pushed open, and a bored-looking Oz entered. Ozma didn't know whether to yell or thank her brother; she'd wanted to confront Balxephon about Hobyrim for weeks since she'd heard the first rumors he was traveling with the Resistance, but now certainly wasn't the time to do it.

Oz looked between the two, seeming to notice the tension filling the room. He smiled and, being the obnoxious little brother he often was, decided to confront them about it. Ozma knew that he did these things simply to annoy her; after all, no one could get under her skin like Oz could.

"Not interrupting, am I?"

Ozma grit her teeth, about to shake her head, but Balxephon responded first.

"A private matter, no concern of yours."

Oz, never knowing when to stop, pressed the matter and Ozma felt a headache coming on. Balxephon was one problem, but a playful Oz was something she couldn't deal with right now. Better to remain quiet and let those two settle it.

"Now now, Balxephon. That's no way to speak to the brother of your betrothed."

Ozma heard the silent bite in her brother's words. He had never been fond of Balxephon, or Hobyrim, or any other man for that matter. Oz had always made it clear that his part in Ozma's life would remain a big one. At first, Ozma had liked it, for Oz kept annoying suitors away, but once she had fallen in love with Hobyrim it had gotten to annoy her. Could she not live her own life? But, as she often admitted to herself, no matter how obnoxious Oz got at times, she could never imagine herself separate from him. Their two bodies contained a single soul that was never to be separated.

"Brother or no, I am your Commander. If you've business with me, I would hear it."

"Our front line is breached. It's only a matter of time before Phidoch falls."

So this was it, then. Ozma released a breath she hadn't known she was holding. All three knew what was coming next, and for Lodis, Ozma would not hesitate. She had always been willing to give her life for her country. But Balxephon's next words surprised her.

"Ozma, take a detachment of men and leave the castle. Oz and I will delay them as long as we can."

Ozma frowned. What nonsense was this? She had a duty to fulfill and she would most certainly not run away from it. Her anger at Balxephon's earlier comment was replaced with a new frustration. All of her work, and it still always came down to this; she would always been seen as a woman. Ozma snapped her reply without thought:

"Oh? Am I to flee like the thrush before the storm?"

"Nothing of the sort. You are to guard the High Champion."

Balxephon's words calmed her. Yes, that made sense. She slowly nodded, her anger fading to a simmer, but her mood remained foul from Balxephon's cool dismissal of the rumors about Hobyrim.

"Of course. He and the Princess must be kept safe."

She looked at her brother, whose expression was unreadable, even to her. He nodded to her, trying to give her confidence. She couldn't just leave him here! Oz would end up doing something foolish without her, she just knew it. She needed to stay with him, for Oz would follow his orders to his last breath. Noting her hesitation, Balxephon snapped:

"You have your orders. Go!"

She met her brother's eyes, but after a second Oz looked away, turning to Balxephon. He was avoiding her, damn him.

"As you say." Ozma replied quietly.

She wanted desperately to warn Oz not to be foolish, but she knew she was pushing Balxephon's mood already, so instead hesitantly turned and walked toward the back door. Before she could leave, she turned back once more at the sound of Balxephon speaking.

"Ozma-We'll continue this later."

Upturning her head in annoyance, Ozma stalked out. Why does he bring these things up at the worst time?

Slamming the door shut behind her, she took a few steps down the hall, before stopping. She could hear voices coming from the room she had just left and felt a sudden pang of childish curiosity. She knew that she didn't have time for this, but Oz and Balxephon were not ones to speak, let alone chat, with each other. She stood just outside the door, listening to the two men. She couldn't hear everything through the thick door, but she could hear more than enough.

". . . .nonsense, Oz, you're going to get yourself killed."

"What of Ozma? . . .cannot let her die."

". . . .must buy time. . . ."

"The castle is lost. . . .be it one of us or both. Better to minimize. . ."

". . .foolish. . ."

". . .deal with this rabble. . .Go with Ozma."

Turning away from the door quickly, Ozma rushed down the hall. She knew what Oz planned. Her heart wanted to stop him, but she knew Oz's loyalty to Lodis was unmatched, even by the stern Volaq. He would not survive this encounter. For her future, he was willing to sacrifice everything. In an instant, Ozma regretted everything negative that had ever crossed her mind about Oz, her other half. Ozma wanted to sit down and cry, but she could not let the tears flow, not yet. She would mourn her brother later; for now, she had a job to do.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Denam Pavel, the new leader of the Resistance, entered Phidoch's Great Hall with apprehension. He had split his troops, and only had his most trusted with him. It was silent. Silent, Denam had quickly learned as he fled from Ronwey's troops, meant dangerous. There was likely a trap to be found, and he had no wish to get caught in it.

He looked about, but could find absolutely nothing. There were no signs of traps, and it appeared that most of the Dark Knight Templars had fled the castle already.

_Not a soul . . ._

As he cautiously took a few more steps forward into the room, he saw what he had missed before: a person. No, not just any person. He would recognize her anywhere:

"Sister? What are you doing here?"

Catiua's new clothing did not suit her, Denam decided immediately. What a strange thought, for he certainly had more important things to worry about right now. Catiua replied in a tone he had never heard directed towards him:

"Come to my rescue? What a good brother you are!"

Quickly, Catiua drew her blade. Denam watched cautiously as she approached. She was inexperienced with the sword, he could tell, but Denam couldn't imagine lifting a finger against his sister. He watched her motions, trying to catch her eye, but Catiua quickly swung at him with an inexperienced slash. Unwilling to block her attack, Denam fell backwards to avoid the sword, a shocked expression on his features.

"What are you doing!

Before she could answer, Denam heard a voice from the upper level. He recognized it immediately.

"Ah, there you are, Catiua."

_Lanselot?_

Taking advantage of Catiua's distraction, Denam picked himself up, stumbling a few steps back as Catiua quickly rushed away to the older man. Tartaros continued speaking to Catiua, ignoring Denam all together.

"It's dangerous here. We're leaving the castle. Come with me."

Denam was frozen. This was a bad situation. Would Tartaros hurt Catiua? Why was she with him? Denam remained still and confused, as two more Dark Knights entered the Grand Hall, both of which Denam had encountered before. What were their names? Oz was the red-head from Boed; he couldn't recall the other's name, but he had met him while working with Ronwey before Balmamusa. Oz was the one who had destroyed the Liberation front! Cerya would want revenge; Denam wished he had brought her along instead of leaving her to deal with the remaining Bakram in the courtyard.

The un-named Loslorien commander and Tartaros continued their conversation as if nothing was going on around them.

"Everything is in order, my Lord. Come, you'd best be on your way."

"Of course."

"Ozma awaits without. I will escort you. Oz will handle this."

They were leaving, damn it all!

"Catiua!" Denam cried in despair.

Catiua didn't even turn. Once again, the Dark Knights continued their conversation; it was as if Denam didn't even exist. Even after Balmamusa Denam had never felt so helpless. The Dark Knight known as Oz finally spoke, but his eyes were on Denam, the only evidence that Loslorien even cared Denam existed at all.

"Leave the rabble to me. The Princess must be kept safe!"

The younger Loslorien commander approached the edge, jumping down. Denam took a few steps back. Oz was alone, for now, but his attention was fully on Denam. The way Oz's eyes pierced him made Denam feel like a piece of meat in front of a starving man. Oz's gaze did not waver when Tartaros spoke; Denam wondered if the red-head even heard him.

"The better part of valor is discretion." Turning to Catiua, Lanselot Tartaros spoke with finality: "Come Catiua, we leave at once!"

Oz remained blocking Denam's path. With what few troops he had with him, Denam murmured his orders quickly:

"Clear the castle. Deal with the remaining Bakram and remaining Dark Knights, we can't let any escape. I'll deal with this one. For Cerya, for the Liberation Front, I owe this one a personal debt."

Denam heard the older male chuckle as he drew his large axe. Drawing his own sword, Denam paid little heed to his commanders shouting orders at his own troops. He was fully focused on Oz now, who actually looked a bit bored. Taking a cautious step forward, he paused mid-step as Oz spoke, casual in tone.

"Your right eye, or your left?"

Denam frowned. Not this nonsense again. Does this man never shut up?

"Either will suffice, I should think. It will make a fine gift for your sister-A pendant, perhaps a brooch." Oz paused, tilting his head to the side, examining Denam with a curious, but unreadable expression. "How fitting. I'm told you only have eyes for her."

Disgusted, Denam snapped.

"I've had enough of your games. Let us be done with this. I'll hear no more from you!"

Instead of taking a step forward to meet Denam, Oz took a step back, playfully swinging his axe. It was dangerous enough to keep Denam back, but it was just for Oz's own amusement and wasn't really targeted in any direction.

"Why not? We have something in common, after all-A sister whom we would do anything to protect."

"Return her to me and speak no more of what we have 'in common!"

Denam felt physically ill at being compared to the man in front of him and rushed forward to slash at Oz in his frustration. Oz's heavier axe blocked Denam's sword easily, but the angle was off, knocking both Denam and Oz off balance. Oz laughed. Denam realized this was all a game to the Loslorien Knight Commander. He snarled in anger, only making Oz laugh harder.

"If only you could hear yourself! 'Return her to me! Return her to me'!" His laughter echoed through the silent hall.

"Yes, I might beg as you do, in your place. I feel a lump in my throat just thinking of it."

Oz's laughter stopped and for a moment he had a serious expression on his face. Denam wondered if it was all just a show, or if Oz truly did love his sister. How could such a monster care about anyone but himself? Denam approached the Lodissian again. He wanted to end this before Oz could continue on any more of his nonsense. Oz was all too willing to meet Denam's strikes, and soon Denam realized he was at a disadvantage. Oz seemed to come to the same conclusion, and withdrew slightly, allowing the younger male time for recovery. Or, more accurately, it gave Oz more time to "play" with Denam.

"There is one difference between us, you know. Unlike Catiua, my sister actually loves me."

"Shut up!" Denam yelled, furious. But this time only rose to the taunts verbally.

"Had you been there for her, would you be in this position? What if you had put her above your duty?"

Denam took two steps back, in horror. How could he know of such things? Had Catiua really told the Dark Knights everything? No. . .

"My war was necessary. Ronwey had to be stopped! He was going to destroy the Walister. No, he would have led all of Valeria to ruin. More than our happiness was at stake."

Oz remained still for a moment, a serious expression on his face as he met Denam's eyes. Denam was surprised at this sudden change in demeanor. Breathing heavily, Denam raised his sword, but Oz had no intention of striking.

"So you didn't care for her at all. Did you even ask her opinion? Did you ever think of anyone but yourself?"

"Catiua wanted to run! I couldn't abandon my country! Not to Ronwey, not to Balbatos, not to Brantyn, and most certainly not to you!"

Oz spat. "So selfish, even now. This war would be over by now had you not interfered. Is it really 'saving' your country when you're the one dragging the death and pain out? If you would but put your sword down and go to your sister, she would accept you!"

"Your words sound sweet, but I know your game. You destroyed Golyat! All of Loslorien did. All you bring with you is pain and suffering; these islands do not need you!"

"And yet the commons are more united now than ever! Did you have any hand in that? No. It is Catiua who unites the country, not you .All you are doing is sticking your heels in the dirt; a pointless struggle, one that is causing even more pain to your people!" Oz paused, giving Denam a curious look, then smiled and laughed.

"Oh, I get it. You're just like me. You like to see your enemy suffer."

Denam was at a full stop now, his sword lowering slightly. Had he really been so selfish? Was he so blind that he was ignoring the will of the people? He had become just like Ronwey; ignoring the people's will for his own gain. The people didn't want to continue the war, and yet Denam had been pushing for it. How could he have been so blind?

Oz, seeing the opportune moment to strike, lunged at the pausing Denam. Denam, lost in his thoughts as he was, didn't see Oz's movement until it was too late. He tried to dodge the strike - had it hit it would have decapitated him - but it hit him at full force on the side of the head, causing his neck to snap back painfully, and knocking him a few feet onto the ground.

Denam's gaze went blank almost instantly, and his last thought before losing consciousness was:

_Sister, I'm sorry._

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Oz Moh Glacius knew his time was running short. The Bakram forces would be completely routed in a few moments, and the rest of Loslorien had either fled to Barnicia or were dead. If he didn't leave soon, the remaining forces who had taken Phidoch would return to the Great Hall and he would be killed. That was unacceptable.

The boy on the ground in front of him left Oz with a bad taste in his mouth. It baffled him at how anyone in power could be so utterly blind to the world around him. He put his axe over his back and picked up the sword from Denam's limp hand. At the last moment the boy had moved just perfectly enough that Oz hadn't struck the killing blow. Balancing the sword between his hands for a moment, he mused: Yes, there was enough time.

Kicking the unconscious child so that he faced upwards, Oz leaned over him, and lifted him up by his armor. His right, or his left? The boy had never answered. Maybe he would simply take both eyes, and would ask the Princess's preference when he returned to Barnicia? But Oz's heart just wasn't in it today. A very short while ago he had been prepared to give up his life, yet here he was alive and well while the Resistance leader lay dying in his hands. In truth, it had darkened his mood drastically; the thought of never seeing his sister again was more than he could handle.

This simply would not do. This would not do at all. Oz thought back at his own words in battle. Why had he said such foolish things? He should never have revealed his thoughts to the child. Frustrated at his own stupidity, he slammed the brat's head against the floor three times, hoping to crack his skull. It didn't have the intended effect, but it did cause Denam to bleed.

Oz's sour mood did not end at his own foolishness. Denam and Catiua's entire relationship disturbed him. How could anyone be so selfish and disrespectful of their sister? Perhaps that was simply another "normal" trait for these barbaric swine. But then, Catiua had abandoned Denam as well. Admittedly, Oz could respect the boy's love for his country and his refusal to run when given the chance to protect it. Oz might have done something similar in his place. After all, he had been willing to leave his own sister to go to his death for Lodis. Oz hated to admit his own hypocrisy.

Dropping the boy down entirely, Oz stood up. That wasn't the first time he thought about his own and the boy's similarities today. Still holding Denam's sword, Oz felt a sudden violent urge to cut out every single one of his internal organs and toss them around the room in frustration. Damn the brat for making him think such things! Oz was not a man to question himself or his actions, but Denam - even unconscious - was making Oz rethink his own morals and principles.

Cursing his own inability and the lack of time, Oz knew he could dawdle no longer. He had to make for Barnicia. Throwing Denam's sword across the room in frustration, as he didn't have time to extract Denam's organs, Oz stalked up the stairs, but stopped halfway. What if the boy recovered? Oz knew he was being foolish; no one could recover from a hit to the head as hard as Oz's. But Oz couldn't just leave him there for the Resistance to find, either. As long as he was still alive, Denam would be a beacon of hope for the Resistance.

He would take Denam for later. Yes, that was it. After all, leaving him to die was something Martym would do, and Oz was most certainly not as pathetic as Martym; it was something he prided himself in. Oz wanted to keep him alive to make sure Denam knew exactly what he thought of him.

Yes, bringing Denam to Barnicia alive would please the High Commander. If not, at least Denam would please the Princess - and himself. Oz would get his revenge on the boy for making him hesitate. There was much to be gained for keeping him alive.

* * *

><p>There was nothing.<p>

The nothing was everything.

Darkness and pain were the only things he knew. What was there other than that? What is this? He didn't understand. Thoughts, if they could even be called that, were a jumbled mess. Nothing mattered except for the feelings, and the feelings spoke of pain, as well as another emotion that was incomprehensible in this state. But the emotion was all-encompassing and it made regaining control of any thoughts impossible.

Soon, his body started to awaken. Yes, he was male. The meaning was lost on him, but he knew that was how to describe himself. Where was he? What was this feeling? He couldn't move; he hurt. Slowly, very slowly, the boy didn't know how long it took, but his senses started returning. First was smell. The smell was rancid, disgusting, unpleasant, but despite that it was also his connection to the world. No matter how unpleasant, the smell was his proof that he was alive. His vocabulary expanded at each new smell. Taste came shortly after.

Next was touch. He was cold and the ground around him was hard. Or was it a wall? He couldn't tell.

Soon after came hearing, and with it, some revelations. Someone was in the room with him. He couldn't see, let alone move, but he could hear, no _feel_, the presence of another person in the room. But for some reason, the boy wasn't frightened. No, the presence was warm, familiar. Feminine. Could one describe a presence as feminine? He didn't know. There was only one word he knew to describe the feeling near him, even if the meaning of the word currently eluded him. It took all of his strength to whisper his thoughts aloud:

_"Sister."_

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/_  
><em>

Oz had made it back to Barnicia alive. He had been greeted by a relieved Balxephon, and he could have sworn that even Tartaros smiled at his return. Oz knew he looked terrible; he'd been traveling non-stop for days. The pleasantries were short lived when they saw the "present" Oz had brought for them, one Denam Pavel - or Denam Morne, _former_ Resistance Leader. Oz learned that everywhere on the islands, rumors were spoken of Denam's fate. He honestly didn't care what the rumors were about and just tossed the boy into the waiting Templar's arms, ignoring the rest of what Balxephon was saying. Balxephon had always talked too much, anyway.

The moment he finished dealing with Tartaros, Oz went to go find his sister. He gave her a long, hard hug, and promised to never leave her ever again. He apologized and stroked her beautiful hair until Ozma had finally let him go and told him to go wash himself, for he was disgusting. Nothing made him happier than to have his sister scolding him again.

Unfortunately, Oz had underestimated his High Commander. A day later Tartaros had declared that since Oz had brought Denam, Oz was the one who had to "care" for him until he was well enough to be considered as a tool. It would make Catiua more docile, Tartaros explained. Denam also had the support of the commons, so keeping him alive and "showing" him would unite the people more quickly. Oz didn't care one lick for any of the High Commander's reasons. Given that the High Commander had forbidden Oz from any games with Denam, Oz didn't want to be near the boy at all. All Denam provoked in Oz was insecurity.

And so every day Oz spent hours in the dungeons below Barnicia. Some of the best healers had worked on Denam. "Fortunately," they told Oz, the whole of the trauma was to Denam's head, though the healers had also explained that the boy was lucky he didn't collapse from exhaustion. Apparently, his body was so worn out that it appeared he hadn't slept a full night for Scales. Once again, Oz nodded, feigning interest. He just wanted to be done with this nonsense. He would have much rather dealt with the Holy Knight in Heim than a pretentious brat. At least the Holy Knight could still scream; his own quarry was barely moving.

Oz was bored out of his mind. He sat at the table in the corner of Denam's "room" thinking of the countless ways he could make the boy scream without causing any permanent damage. Certainly the High Champion wouldn't object to that? Stimulating some of his nerves to get _any_ reaction was beginning to sound extremely appealing. He was bored enough to start ripping the hairs out of Denam's head one by one.

Despite his complaints, Oz knew better than to act on his whims and instead continued watching Denam's slow recovery. He had been slowly improving, but in the last few days, Denam's body had become more active. He was active enough to respond to Oz's presence, excellent. Oz approached the boy to see how much longer he would have to wait, but was utterly shocked to hear a whispered word:

"Sister."

Oz stopped moving as Denam gasped for breath, as if the word had taken everything out of him. That was certainly unexpected; the boy's resilience was impressive, Oz hadn't been expecting him to awaken enough to speak for another day or two. At this revelation, Oz decided that keeping him a prisoner like this was an absolute waste; he would have loved to play with Denam, as he would probably scream for days straight before finally breaking.

Oz didn't respond, but moved closer to Denam, kneeling beside him, curious to see if he could provoke another reaction. As Denam caught his breath and regained a bit of strength, it looked like he was trying to move towards Oz. Denam's actions looked less like "movement" and more like an un-earthed worm. His motions were jerky and limited, but impressive nonetheless. Once again, he heard Denam rasp out

"Sister!"

The word was louder and stronger this time. It was also very obviously directed towards Oz. In shock, Oz responded with a surprised:

"What?"

"Sister." Denam declared again, this time grasping out towards Oz, hitting his hand on Oz's armor. This didn't seem to deter him, though, and Denam grasped at the cloth.

"W-What nonsense is this?"

Denam didn't answer, as he had fallen asleep. Removing Denam's hand in shock, Oz stumbled backwards. As he made his way back to the table he had been previously sitting at Oz wondered what he had gotten himself into with his single act of compassion. He would have laughed at the boy, but Denam was so pathetic that Oz couldn't even muster any amusement.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

_"Sister."_

He repeated the word again. It made him strong. He didn't know how long it had been since he last said it, but the presence wasn't near him anymore. Finally opening his eyes, the boy closed them almost immediately at the brightness. In truth, it was not bright at all, but his eyes had been in darkness for so long that even a small amount of light was painful.

Blinking as rapidly as he could, the boy tried to get a clear view of the room, with minimal success. He did notice that his sister had finally approached him again and was looking at him curiously.

"Sister!"

He responded to her presence happily. His sister backed away a step before finally approaching, looking him over. She wasn't saying anything, but the boy could feel himself being released from whatever it was that bound him. He hadn't even realized he was attached to anything. Falling to the ground with a grunt, his sister walked away and motioned for him to follow.

He was stiff. His muscles weren't working as well as he'd like after however long he'd been confined and unconscious. His movements came off as jerky and he fell down immediately after trying to stand the first. His sister made an annoyed sound from the side of the room. Not wanting to disappoint her, he put all of his effort into getting up and moving over to her. It wasn't so much "walking" as it was "stumbling," but he was remarkably satisfied when he finally was able to sit down next to his sister. On the table before him was a cup of water, from which he shakily drank.

While he was trying to catch his breath, his sister spoke.

"Do you know where you are? Do you understand this ridiculous predicament?"

The boy responded negatively. He was thoroughly confused; though his vocabulary was returning rapidly, he couldn't seem to remember anything other than pain, darkness, and his sister before him. His sister sighed, and he wasn't sure what he had said wrong.

"Your name is Denam. You are in Barnicia Castle, in northern Valeria. Do you remember the Resistance?"

Denam. His name was Denam. Denam clutched onto his sister's words. Valeria was familiar enough, for that was where he lived. Barnicia didn't bring up anything meaningful, and the Resistance brought nothing more than memories of pain and death. Feelings, flashes, nothing more. Denam shivered.

"I don't know." Denam rasped in reply. "I remember worrying for you, sister."

His sister seemed amused.

"I am Oz. Not 'sister.'"

Denam felt a surprising burst of annoyance and, despite his weariness, responded quickly.

"You'll always be 'sister' to me!"

His sister, Oz, made a strangled sound that Denam took as compliance. Taking another drink of his water on the table, Denam suddenly realized how thirsty he was. His first drinks had been tentative, almost curious, but now Denam was overwhelmed by hunger and thirst. Oz seemed to want to talk, however, so Denam would get his food later.

"Ugh. What've I gotten myself into? You, boy, er-Denam, I'm not your sister." Denam murmured a quiet "_Nonsense" _to himself, earning a glare from Oz, who continued: "But enough of that. You are here at the mercy of the Dark Knights Loslorien and her highness Princess Versalia. You'd best mind your manners."

The names meant nothing to him. All that mattered to Denam right now was his sister. His sister, however, seemed to be chatty and continued whether or not Denam understood.

"Or, more accurately, you're here on my mercy. I'm bored enough to go out and impale the healers with their own tools, so let's get this over with. Ask away."

Denam gave Oz a sad, empathetic smile. He didn't want his sister being bored! It was his fault, after all, for being unconscious for all this time. So he responded, completely ignoring the unfamiliar terms "Dark Knights," "Loslorien," and "Versalia."

"Well, if you're bored, why don't we do something interesting? Or maybe we can get something to eat?"

Denam's sister stared at him for a few moments, before bursting into amused laughter.

"I really don't think you know what you're asking for, boy."

"I know exactly what I'm asking for. I can't have my sister bored, so we have to find something to solve that problem! I'll do everything I can to satisfy you. That, and I'm hungry. What is so hard to understand?"

Oz didn't respond immediately, but the laughter was completely gone, now. Denam's sister was staring at him with an intense look, and Denam didn't quite understand the problem. Did he say something wrong? Had he displeased his sister? For less than a half-second he saw Oz's eyes soften, before they once again hardened into the unreadable expression Denam was getting used to seeing. Oz finally replied:

"Very well, we'll get you some food. I'd also like to introduce you to a friend of mine, his name is Martym. I think you two will get along very well. But first, the healers must change your bandages and your clothes. When they're done, I'll be waiting just outside."

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Oz wondered how he got himself into this situation.

The brat was clutching at him, even attempting to hold his hand. Oz reacted violently to Denam's touch, telling him to never do it again or he might have to go back on his oath to the High Commander that he would not do any permanent harm to the boy.

Instead of stopping, Denam simply stared at Oz, his bright eyes thoughtful before once again taking Oz's armored hand, this time in both of his own, and smiled at the other man with a soft, understanding look that Oz had no idea how to respond to. It was just so bright and innocent. Oz's first desire was to crush him, and see how that innocent smile looked through glazed-over, flat eyes. But while Oz's mind was carefully thinking of ways he could scar Denam, his body simply wasn't reacting the way it usually did. Oz blamed his lack of motivation on his prolonged boredom and finally opted to let the boy have his way. Without another word, Oz led Denam up the stairs and to the supper hall, his hand in Denam's.

The hall wasn't busy after dinner, and for that Oz was thankful. Calling a servant over, Oz ordered him to find Martym. As the servant scampered away like kicked dog, Oz and the boy walked over to a far corner. Another servant came, and Oz demanded food and water for the brat, while taking some wine for himself. Neither Oz nor Denam said anything for a time, and Oz once again found the boy staring at him. He tried to ignore the look at first, but after a few minutes of painful waiting, Oz finally snapped:

"What do you want?"

Denam replied with a simple "Nothing, sister. I enjoy being with you."

"Oz." Oz replied firmly.

"Sister!" Denam spoke with enthusiasm.

Oz clenched his jaw, but said nothing. There was no point in trying to talk to the boy, as he was clearly delusional. Instead, Oz remained silent until he heard the familiar sound of armor walking up from behind. Excellent, Martym had finally arrived. Oz whispered harshly to Denam "Mind your manners!" Denam nodded seriously in response. He supposed that was the best he would get out of the boy.

Oz stood to meet his fellow Commander, and Martym gave him a questioning look.

"What's this about, Oz?"

Oz motioned to the boy sitting at the table, who seemed curious about this whole situation.

"This is Denam. He's in need of a friend."

Martym's eyes narrowed, looking for the trap in Oz's words. Oz and Martym had never been anything more than professional colleagues; Oz thought Martym was barbaric and uncouth, while Martym though Oz was immature, feminine, and talked too much. Before Martym or Oz could respond, Denam spoke up, tone annoyingly chipper, yet scolding at the same time:

"Sister, I can introduce myself. I'm Denam!"

Oz turned around immediately and clutched Denam's arm, warning him to be silent with a harsh whisper.

Martym, on the other hand, was quiet for a moment, instead offering a twisted smile to the boy. Oz knew that nothing good would come of Martym when he smiled like that and stood between the two. Martym pushed Oz out of the way in an instant, looking at the boy with interest. His tone dripped of venom and Oz knew the situation was spiraling rapidly out of his control.

"Oh? Well, Denam, it is a pleasure to meet you, I am Martym. So you are Oz's brother, then?"

Denam responded quickly, completely oblivious to Oz's signs telling him to stop: "Yes. Sister has been taking care of me while-"

Interrupting Denam, Oz hissed "Yes, the High Commander has ordered me to babysit the rabble."

"You seem to be doing more than babysitting, '_sister'_." Martym sneered at Oz, speaking loudly enough that the entire room could hear, and continued. "But, I've a secret to tell you, Denam. Your dear sister? She has some _extra parts_."

Denam looked thoroughly confused and Oz took the time to whisper to Denam. "You will shut up or I will remove your tongue. Boy, usually being a "sister" implies that you're female. I-"

Martym's laughter interrupted Oz's explanation and the other Templar continued loudly "Oh please, Oz. There's no need for modesty. You're as much of a woman as your own sister. 'Sister' suits you well."

Denam nodded his head vigorously at Martym's remarks, giving Martym a smile. Martym's smile was cruel in return. "Yes, sister. You're very feminine. The other things don't matter! You'll always be a sister to me."

Finally having enough, Oz forced Denam out of the chair, knocking the water and wine over on the table in the process. For his humiliation, Denam would pay. Oz dragged Denam down to the kitchens, ignoring the boy's squirming. Pushing past all of the servants until he was at the lower level, Oz demanded a meal for the brat. Turning to Denam, Oz spoke coldly. The boy was shaking now, good. The fear in his eyes lightened Oz's mood slightly.

"Boy, be silent and follow me. Do not respond if anyone speaks to you."

Soon after, a servant gave Oz a tray of food and a pitcher of water, and Oz motioned for the now-silent Denam to follow. Oz walked Denam out to the abandoned guardhouse. Inside it was cold, damp, moldy, and there were small creatures running about. Placing the tray on the dilapidated table alongside the pitcher, Oz turned to Denam, grabbing the boy by his new shirt, and forcing him against the wall. He put his mouth very close to the boy's ear, whispering with malice:

"For what you've done, you will stay in here. No one will hear your screams. No one will answer your cries. You will think upon your actions and disobedience. And," Oz laughed at the tears growing in Denam's eyes "I will not return to you until you will swear to never go against my word again. Do you understand?"

Denam was sobbing openly now, and Oz pushed his neck back with his elbow, forcing the boy to hit his already-wounded head. "Answer me, brat!"

"I-I-I. . ." Denam breathed heavily, shaking "I understand, sister."

Releasing the boy, Denam fell to the ground and Oz turned away.

As Oz was leaving, Denam spoke to him, voice heavy with sadness and little more than a whisper.

"I'll do my best to please you in the future, sister. But please, please, don't leave me! I don't want to be alone."

Oz froze, a familiar memory flashing before his eyes.

_Please, __Ozma! Help me! I don't want to go with father, don't leave me! I don't want to be alone. Sister!"_

Snarling, Oz stormed from the room, latching the door behind him. The last thing he heard was Denam's sob of:

"_Sister!"_

* * *

><p>Oz lounged by the window in his sister's room. Ozma had just returned from a trip to Heim and was cleaning herself. Oz had missed her terribly; not only had he been horribly bored, but babysitting a semi-conscious boy had worn at his already short temper, not to mention his own dark introspection. He quickly dismissed the servants who tried to undress her, and opted instead to help Ozma remove her armor. Ozma gave a sigh, but let him do as he pleased; after all, Oz had made it very clear to Ozma that he would not be silent unless he got what he wanted regarding her health and happiness.<p>

Quickly releasing her leather with a speed that only comes from practice, Oz was surprised when it was Ozma who initiated the conversation.

"I'm told you've been busy."

Oz's eyes narrowed at his sister's back for a moment, pausing for a moment before he continued removing her armor.

"I've been bored without you, sister."

"Boed Fortress wasn't enough for you? You'd plenty of fun there. But that's not what I'm talking about Oz. Stop trying to change the subject."

Oz made an annoyed hiss. He had never been able to hide anything from his sister. She always seemed to know exactly when he didn't want her to know something.

"The High Commander has set me up with babysitting duty. No, not the Princess, you know Lord Tartaros babysits her."

Ozma shooed his hands away, letting Oz know she could finish her armor on her own. His other half turned towards him, a small smile on her face as she spoke.

"Balxephon tells me that you're quite fond of the boy. You're a big sister now, congratulations! Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

Oz suppressed a groan. Taking Denam to meet Martym after Denam had awakened had been a short-sighted decision meant to humiliate the boy, maybe teach him some submission. Unfortunately, it had ended up backfiring and now all of Loslorien knew that Oz was Denam's "sister." Even _Ozma _knew, and she hadn't been back to Barnicia for weeks! Since the days alone in the guardhouse, Denam had changed. His personality was calmer, less childish. He had become completely obedient and submissive to Oz.

At first, Oz had approved of the change. The boy was easier to handle and far less annoying this way. Denam's actions had often made Oz freeze, highlighting Oz's own hypocrisy. In Phidoch, Oz had loathed Denam for making him second-guess himself and for showing Oz how similar the two had been in their willingness to leave their respective sisters for the betterment of their countries. But that night, after meeting with Martym, Oz hadn't gotten any sleep. Memories of his own screams cried in his head, echoes of harsh punishment. Memories of inferiority, of loneliness, and of his incompetence had all surfaced and the surprise thunderstorm had done nothing to improve his mood.

When Oz had finally went to the boy, three days later, he'd found Denam curled in the corner. The food and water was gone, but Denam still looked sickly. Denam didn't seem to notice Oz at first, and Oz had walked over to the boy, kneeling by him. The boy was feverish and his eyes looked dead. Oz knew the look, for it was one that had been on his face often as a child. Denam didn't react. In a move that even surprised Oz himself, Oz gently picked the boy up and held him against his armor, patting his hair. The boy wasn't crying anymore, for he had run out of emotions to feel.

From that point on Oz had started acting more as a tutor to Denam, telling him what to say, when to feel, and when other words or actions were unacceptable. Denam was a willing learner, always soaking up with Oz taught him with enthusiasm and passion.

"The boy is insane. I do not jest when I say that I hit Denam too hard over the head with my axe. He barely knows anything. I've been helping him remember."

Ozma had a thoughtful expression on her face, sensing the truth in his words.

"So it's 'Denam' now? Not only 'boy'? I didn't believe it at first, but you do have a soft spot for him!"

"What nonsense. Don't read too far into it, sister. He's annoying and clingy." At that point his sister gave him a pointed look that seemed to be trying to tell him something. Oz ignored it. "He's caused nothing but problems for me ever since I decided to bring him here. The High Commander won't let me go afield until we know Denam is obedient."

Ozma, fully in her underclothes now, took a brush and began to run it through her hair. As she sat down on the end of her bed, she replied casually:

"If you're so bored, I'm told the Princess has learned of Denam's presence. I'm sure you'd enjoy supervising a meeting between the two."

The idea was brilliant. Though she would swear otherwise, his sister was just as sadistic as he himself was. Though she was not as vocal as Oz, her ideas often held a subtle cruelty. Oz's mood immediately lightened; he loved it when his sister was willing to listen to her baser desires. Oz's body language spoke volumes more than words could. Ozma continued:

"I'll speak to the High Commander about it, then. Oh, and Oz? Take care of your little brother. He obviously looks up to you."

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Denam sat by his window, watching the courtyard below him. A few of the Templars were practicing. They were very diligent in their practice; Denam was impressed. He wished he could say the same for himself, as he was anything but diligent with his current procrastination. His sister had been teaching him the things he had forgotten, about the people of Valeria, Walister, Bakram, Galgantani, but also of other countries. Oz told Denam of how obnoxious Xenobians were, and of the beauty and wonder of Lodis' Seat, Galius. Oz had even gone so far as to procure a book on Lodissian History as well as one called "Glacius and the Magical Theory." The latter was far more interesting to him than any history book.

Unfortunately, while Denam had read his second book with interest, Oz had forbidden him from practicing with any magic unless he was in the room. Denam had pouted and complained of boredom, but his sister would not budge on the subject, saying that if Denam was obedient he might soon be able to practice on his own. What interested Denam most was his familiarity with magic; the feelings were familiar enough that Denam could tell he knew them well at some point. It was as if he was relearning what he already knew.

It was not only scholarly lessons Oz taught Denam, but lessons of culture and etiquette. Oz had been incredibly annoyed at Denam's eating habits, as well as his lack of knowing how to properly interact in certain situations. What Denam knew, apparently, was "barbaric and disgusting." Oz had been strict enough that Denam quickly picked up on when to speak, act, and how and when to keep his distance. Despite his initial annoyance, Denam soon realized the necessity of Oz's lessons.

Glancing at the book over on his nightstand, Denam then glanced back out at the training Templars. He still didn't move; Denam's days were just so_ dull _without his sister's visits and lessons and the history book certainly didn't make them any more interesting. Denam knew he was being immature and had to start reading at some point, but before he could move, there was a firm knock on his door. Denam knew that knock; it was the sound he had been waiting all day for. His big sister had finally arrived!

Denam practically ran over the door, opening it with a bright smile on his features. If possible, his smile got even brighter when he saw that he was correct; Oz had decided to visit. After letting his sister in, Denam went to sit on his bed, expecting Oz to follow as he always did. But Oz stayed near the door, much to Denam's confusion. Turning towards Oz, Denam saw someone else outside his room.

It was a blonde woman. Denam examined her curiously, primarily noting her black dress. He couldn't find anything particularly special about her. The girl's black hat was a bit too large to be fashionable, Denam felt, and the color didn't suit her. The girl in the doorway stood staring at Denam, and Denam suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"What is this about, sister?" Denam asked Oz.

To his surprise, both answered at the same time. Oz quickly cut the girl off.

"Denam, what is-"

"I've brought a friend to visit today, little brother. Her name is Catiua and she's requested a meeting with you."

Oz motioned for the girl, Denam now knew her as Catiua, to enter the room. She rushed over to the sitting Denam, clutching at him. To Denam's surprise she was crying against his chest. Denam looked up at Oz, silently pleading for his sister's help. Oz remained still; he lounged lazily against the wall beside the now-closed door with a satisfied smile on his features.

Denam didn't move. What was wrong with this girl? Why was she in his space? She was babbling some nonsense that Denam didn't understand and only half-paid attention to. She was clearly irrational and quite possibly insane. He tried to remove her arms, but she clutched even harder.

"S-Stop. Let me go." Denam spoke firmly.

Catiua looked up at him, meeting his eyes. She looked confused, but didn't listen. Instead she searched Denam's features, which, unfortunately for Catiua, lacked any form of recognition. Denam, finally having grown impatient with Catiua, stood up and kicked her off roughly. She fell to the ground with a cry of pain and Denam backed away, fleeing towards Oz, who stood in front of him protectively. Oz apathetically spoke to the sobbing girl on the floor, who now looked angry as well as upset.

"You heard the man. He doesn't want you in here."

Denam turned away from Catiua as she whispered his name with desperation: "Denam. . ." before fleeing the room.

As she left, Oz turned to Denam, a severe, albeit unreadable, expression on his face. His tone was scolding:

"That's not the proper way to treat your sister, boy."

Denam was confused; this whole situation sat ill with him. He responded cautiously:

"But I would never do such things to you, sister." Denam was horrified that Oz had even implied such things!

This earned a chuckle from Oz, who nodded. Oz motioned to the door and spoke.

"Come, Denam. We're going to start a new lesson today."

A smile covered Denam's features, his sour mood all but forgotten. Oz's lessons were the highlight of his day. Denam followed Oz silently, down and down through the halls until they reached the dungeons. Denam hadn't been down here since he awakened. They weren't quite as he remembered, but they were surprisingly empty; the Dark Knights took very few prisoners. Especially now that the war was ending and only a few groups of stragglers remained. Or, at least that was what Oz had told him.

Oz led Denam into one of the larger cells, where a lone filthy man awaited. Denam looked down on the man with disgust. The man in chains was surprised, even hopeful, at Denam's approach, but Denam didn't notice the man's subtle change in body language, his attention already completely on Oz. His sister was obviously in a good mood, chatting with Denam casually. Anything that put Oz in a good mood put Denam in a good mood.

"This Walister rabble has information on where the remnants of the Resistance are hiding. He has been disagreeable with our questioners and, unfortunately, now we must take drastic measures."

Oz quickly flipped out a dagger and rolled the hilt in his fingers. Oz's gaze never left the Walister, but his words were directed at Denam.

"Pay attention well, Denam, for this is the most important lesson I will ever teach you. We will break him; we must make him cry, beg, and whimper. I will show you true art. We will start with easier methods, ones anyone can do. They are boring and overused, but useful, nonetheless, for a beginner like you. They're not nearly as elegant as some more complex strategies."

Denam wasn't sure what to say. Instead, he kept his eyes on Oz, feeling rather impassive, but impressed at Oz's passion. As soon as Oz had finished speaking, he quickly grasped the prisoner's hand and forced the point of his dagger under the man's nail, causing it to pop off. A small pool of blood quickly formed where the nail once was. The man grunted and gasped, but no scream came out and Denam could tell Oz was pleased. "This Walister will take some effort to break."

"The nails are very sensitive and have long been used as a way to easily break prisoners. Even the most primitive tribes know how much pain the removal of a nail can cause. It's easy and effective, but _so _boring. There are ways to add flavor, but in this limited dungeon, we must take what we can get."

While curious, Denam wasn't sure what he was supposed to get from this lesson. It was obviously very factual, but his sister spoke with such passion and pleasure. He didn't remember _ever _seeing Oz so alive. Oz's happiness made Denam feel alive as well.

"So, I'm to find enjoyment in this?"

Oz finally took his eyes off the prisoner, meeting Denam's with a smile.

"Precisely."

* * *

><p>Oz had a pleasant surprise for him today, or at least Denam had been told. It was a secret, and Oz was tight-lipped, refusing to reveal anything about it. After telling Denam about the secret, Oz decided to leave him for a few hours to "muse" on it. Denam, annoyed at being teased, paced through his room impatiently, unable to focus his thoughts on anything else. The one servant who entered his room offering him his midday meal had quickly fled at a frustrated snap from Denam.<p>

Denam regretted the action soon after. His stomach was empty and Denam wasn't permitted to leave his room without an escort. His hunger and impatience left Denam in a sour mood and he just wanted his sister to return. Despite Oz's hesitance, Denam was _sure _his elder enjoyed their time together.

After what seemed like an eternity later, but a quick glance at the sun from the window told Denam it was just past midday, Oz finally came back. He didn't say anything, but had a dark look about him. Denam had quickly learned that when Oz looked like that it was best to be quiet and do what he asked, always agreeing when he said anything. Oz motioned towards Denam, who followed, pleased to finally learn what the surprise was.

Remaining silent, Denam followed Oz through Barnicia's halls, ignoring the all-too-familiar stares of the servants as they walked by. The looks had been uncomfortable at first, but as Oz realized Denam didn't like them, Oz had had, as he casually put it, "dealt" with them. Now the only looks he received were from some of the bold, or, as Denam preferred, "stupid," Valerian servants.

They stopped outside of a door. It wasn't any different from any of the other doors in the hallway, but for some reason it felt remarkably intimidating. Denam wasn't quite sure why, but even his sister hesitated, even if only for a fraction of a second, before knocking. No one answered and Denam noticed Oz's impatience. Denam felt bad for whoever was making Oz impatient, for the last time Denam had made Oz wait, he hadn't been allowed to exit the dungeons for a week, Oz bringing food down to him twice a day. Denam had been so hurt, and bored, that he had cautiously tried out the techniques Oz had taught him on the prisoners. It was only once Denam had run out of prisoners to play with that Oz decided to let him back upstairs, saying that Denam had been a "good boy."

Denam squirmed. Oz's impatience was beginning to spread to him. Another knock from Oz, this time firmer, along with a call: "Ozma, I'm not leaving until you let me in." Denam heard a voice from within, followed be rustling that he could only assume to be the room's occupant walking around. A moment later, the door swung open and a half-dressed woman appeared, an angry expression on her face. For a moment, Denam stared in shock. The woman was quite beautiful, red hair longer than he had seen on anyone he remembered. He wanted to touch it, for it shined in the light. Denam's mind caught up with his body at that thought and felt a sudden flash of embarrassment. How could anyone reveal themselves like that in public? And why was Oz not saying anything about it? Did the woman know no modesty? Denam averted his eyes quickly, ashamed for her, but secretly wanting to look back up and explore. The woman spoke to his sister.

"What is it Oz? I told you earlier, I'm busy today-"

Oz cut the woman off by pushing Denam towards her. Denam stumbled into the woman's room at the shove, and heard Oz reply. "Take good care of him, sister. I've orders from the High Commander and don't have time to babysit today."

Before either could move, Oz rushed down the hall, leaving a confused Denam and the angry woman alone in the room. The woman closed the door quickly, and Denam could feel her gaze on him. He tried to appear confident, as Oz had told him, but it was difficult when his eyes were stuck to the ground, trying to avoid looking at the half-dressed woman.

A moment later, he heard the soft sound of laughter. It was warm, pleasant, and Denam felt himself relax a bit. The woman approached, and put a hand under Denam's chin, lifting his gaze to meet hers. It didn't take Denam long to notice the resemblance to his sister

"You look like my sister."

The woman's features were confused for a half-second and she laughed again. Denam bristled indignantly; he didn't like being laughed at. His reaction only served to amuse her further and she turned away, taking his hand and leading him to a small table near the window.

"Stay here, boy. Let me become decent and we'll have a talk."

Denam nodded. The woman held such an air of authority, much like his sister's, that he felt he couldn't deny her. Instead he sat down at the table and folded his arms calmly. The woman came back surprisingly quickly, this time in more than her smallclothes. She commanded the servant behind her without turning around, as she sat down at the table next to Denam.

"Tell Balxephon that an emergency has come up and that I won't be able to make it. If he has any questions, tell me to come to me personally."

The servant bowed and exited the room, forgotten by the room's occupants less than second later. The woman, _what had Oz called her?,_ had a curious expression on her face as she gazed at Denam. Denam was familiar with Oz's piercing gaze, but this woman's was strong and foreign. Denam didn't turn away, and met her eyes without hesitation. He would not allow himself to be intimidated, let alone by such a beautiful woman. Oz would be ashamed of him if he did not show strength and confidence at all times. After a moment, her gaze softened.

"I am Ozma. You must be Denam. I've heard much about you."

Denam bowed his head respectfully, as Oz had taught him to do when meeting a proper woman for the first time. He responded.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dame Ozma. As you're aware, my name is Denam."

Ozma took Denam's hand and Denam's eyes widened at her boldness. Denam didn't have any other woman except for the whiny girl in black to compare Ozma to, but he was sure this wasn't appropriate. Denam felt the color rise in his cheeks and Ozma touched his face with her other hand.

"Oh, you're adorable. I see why Oz likes you so." She paused, removing her hand. "Oz tells me you're interested in learning about Magic."

Denam nodded passionately, he very much enjoyed Oz's lessons in magic. He was getting better now, remembering everything he had forgotten. He replied:

"Yes, sister gives me lessons every day."

Ozma looked as if she was holding back laughter again. "I'm sure Oz doesn't appreciate you calling him 'sister.'"

Denam's expression went cold immediately. This woman assumed she knew about Denam's and his sister's relationship! "Oz is my sister, no matter what."

Ozma gave Denam an appraising look, Denam glaring back. "You certainly are devoted. I could learn a thing or two, perhaps." She paused. "But if Oz is your sister, then I suppose I am as well."

All of Denam's work at trying to appear strong went to waste as he gaped. But. . .it made sense. They looked alike, and Denam wondered why it hadn't occurred to him before. The back of his mind told him that it was because he had been paying attention to Ozma's other assets more than her face, but Denam pushed the voice away. He would not think of his other sister that way.

Once Denam had come to terms with the idea, he cautiously replied. "So I've two sisters?"

Ozma nodded. "Yes, little brother. Now, come. Let's see how skilled you are at the arts of House Glacius."

* * *

><p>Denam was doing well, Oz concluded. Having finished giving his report to the High Commander regarding the younger male, Oz noticed Lanselot's unsurprised agreement with a frown. Though Denam had been missing for too long to unite the rest of Valeria, Lanselot explained, he would still be a capable ally in the future. Oz silently disapproved of Tartaros speaking of his brother as nothing but a tool, but said nothing; it wasn't his place to disagree with the High Commander. Oz let his body language speak of his disapproval, but vocally declared that he would do everything he could to prepare Denam.<p>

The Princess was in the room with Oz and Tartaros, as she always was. Throughout the entire report, she glared at Oz with what could only be described as a passionate hatred. Oz had to admit, the look in her eyes was absolutely beautiful; he would do well to provoke her in the future, just to experiment with the responses he could get.

Denam had shown to have a strong affinity for magic, something Oz wouldn't have expected given the primarily melee style he had used in Phidoch. Though Denam didn't have strength in Oz's own Fire, he had shown great affinity for Ozma's Ice. It was obvious that Denam remembered the feel, the touch, the taste of magic, Oz had simply reawakened what Denam's body already knew. Once he had, he had been surprised at Denam's thirst for knowledge on the subject. For more specialized lessons, Oz called Ozma, for their shared element would allow for more in-depth training. Ozma seemed to enjoy giving Denam lessons just as much as Oz did; or perhaps it was simply Ozma enjoying her power over the younger male, Oz wasn't sure. Oz felt a tad miffed at Ozma and Denam's relationship; even as children she had always been the better of the two at the Magics of their family, but had never spent any time teaching _him_ about how to properly wield it.

In fact, Denam was an avid learner in everything Oz had been willing to teach. That was likely why Denam had been given freedom to move through Barnicia on his own. If Oz was honest with himself, and Oz always liked to be bluntly honest, teaching Denam hadn't been _that _bad. Though it had kept him from the field, the war was winding down and it was nice to have a little brother who looked up to him. Ozma certainly made a big deal of nothing. She constantly complained of how Oz didn't know when to be quiet, or of how he didn't think for himself. Oz knew she was just bluffing to annoy him, now; it was impossible that she could think such things of Oz. Oz didn't understand any of Ozma's annoyance, for it was nice having someone willing to unconditionally support his opinion.

There was one problem, however, and that was why Oz was going to visit Denam now. Denam was predictably easy to find, sitting in his favorite corner under a tree in the central courtyard. He had a book with him, one that Oz eyed in distaste, knowing it was from Ozma. Denam looked up and a smile appeared on his features; the smile was infectious, and Oz responded in kind before speaking:

"Denam, come with me. You've something to do."

Denam nodded, smile not leaving his face. It was good to know that Denam was just as obedient as the day he awakened. He marked his page, closed his book, and got up, dusting himself off. He chatted with Oz as they walked, with Oz only half-listening, until they stopped right outside of Ozma's door.

"What's this, sister?" Despite knowing full well that Oz was male, Denam stubbornly persisted in calling him 'sister.' Ozma was no help in the matter, since she had though it was adorable. Finally giving into the two, Oz stopped complaining about his title. "This is Ozma's room, what're we to do here?"

It was a valid question, and there was no reason to hide the answer. "Your hair. It's too long and makes you look like a child. Your elder sister is going to cut it for you. When we were younger she would cut mine, so I can assure you she is very skilled at it."

Denam seemed a bit surprised, but nodded seriously. "Is there anything she cannot do?"

Oz chuckled, as it was something he often wondered himself. Ozma opened the door before he could knock, and ushered Denam and Oz in. She motioned Denam to go sit in the chair she had set up and waved Oz away, causing a flash of annoyance in the man. Oz would have none of it. He went over to Ozma's table to sit and watch; he had no intention of leaving. Oz's eyes narrowed as he noticed the way Ozma treated Denam. She was soft, almost motherly. She didn't use the same scolding tone with Denam that she did with Oz, opting instead to speak gently, playfully, even.

Oz made a displeased sound, getting his elder's attention. She glared, turning back to Denam before snapping her reply at Oz:

"Don't be like that, brother. You're acting worse than a child."

"I don't know what you're on about, sister, there's nothing wrong." Oz hissed.

Ozma groaned and murmured something to Denam that Oz couldn't quite hear. Though Denam's back was to him, Oz could tell that Denam was hesitantly amused, as if he liked what Ozma had said, but didn't want to laugh because it would "hurt Oz's feelings." Oz grated his teeth; he was being ridiculous, he told himself, there was no need to be jealous of the attention Ozma was giving Denam. It wasn't as if Denam was like Balxephon and was trying to take Ozma away from him. The thought calmed him.

The room was silent for a few minutes, other than the gentle sound of Ozma's small knife slicing Denam's hair. It was quite short now, Oz approved of the style, and Ozma was just cleaning it up and even-ing it out. As she finished, Oz had a thought: What if it was his sister that was trying to take Denam away from him? It occurred to Oz that Denam hadn't ever had a dark thought regarding Oz no matter the pain Oz had put him through, and Denam would most certainly never do anything to hurt him. But Ozma, she was just as jealous and possessive as Oz himself. The evidence fit; Denam and Ozma got along very well, and Ozma had spent much of her free time giving him lessons in Glacius magic whenever Oz wasn't with him. She even spoke to Denam like she had to Oz when they had been children.

Oz practically radiated malice at this point, his presence severe enough to have both Ozma and Denam stop to stare at him. Ozma shook her head and sighed, her long hair fell over her eyes as she spoke to Oz in an all-too-familiar tone.

"Oh, Oz. There are times I wonder what goes on in that head of yours. I just know it's something foolish."

Oz, not trusting himself enough to respond, stalked out of the room in a fit. The lone servant who crossed Oz's path on the way back to his chambers found himself with a broken wrist and one less working finger.

It wasn't until early evening that Oz realized just how badly he had acted regarding Ozma and Denam. It was just as Ozma said: Oz was remarkably foolish at times. Running a hand through his hair, Oz sighed. He would have to patch this situation up somehow. He would deal with Denam first, as Denam was a good, forgiving boy. Women were creatures of grudges, after all. His little brother would certainly be more rational.

An idea immediately crossed Oz's mind, one that suited Denam. Denam was his little brother after all, and Oz had worked to culture him and mature him. The new Denam was more Lodissian than Valerian, and Oz had been grooming him into a proper Lodissian man. This was simply another step along the path. Picking through his casual clothing, Oz smiled. Yes, red would suit Denam well.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Denam gave Ozma his heartfelt thanks for the haircut, and apologized to his elder sister for Oz's actions. Ozma laughed it off, saying their brother was always like that; Oz would come to his senses and apologize in the morning. Denam frowned, still feeling bad about the situation, but Ozma sent him off to his room with a firm, scolding tone that Denam found he couldn't deny.

Back in his room, Denam sat at his table, opening up his book to the point where he had left off, and ran a hand over his newly shortened hair. It felt different, but nice. His hair was certainly lighter than it was before, and it would be easier to take care of. He wondered why he hadn't come up with the idea himself. It wasn't anywhere near dark yet, so Denam figured he had a few hours more to catch up on "The Lodissian Approach: History and Theory of Personal Development in Ice Magic" before having some supper. The book itself was basic and Denam would even call it insulting compared to some of the lessons Ozma had given him, but he was reading it through just in case he might have missed something. Denam doubted it.

Denam quickly relaxed and was caught up in his book when he heard a knock on his door. He looked up, noting that the sun was slowly setting. Putting the boring book down on the table, he opened the door, only to find a somewhat repentant, if determined, looking Oz standing outside. The look didn't suit him, Denam decided, and Denam immediately opened the door to let his sister into his room.

To Denam's surprise, Oz had brought something with him, and Denam had no idea what was going on. Closing the door behind his elder sister, Denam noted Oz eying him curiously.

"What's the matter, sister?"

Oz seemed relieved. Did he really think Denam would have been mad at him? How could Denam ever be mad at Oz? The very thought baffled him. Oz seemed all too willing to answer, his caution gone.

"I've come to the conclusion that you dress horribly. Valerian clothes are not only ugly, but do you no credit. I've gone through my casual clothes and I've found some that will suit you better." Denam gaped. Surely his sister wasn't serious! But Oz continued. "Don't give me that look, brother. Have I not taught you the importance of appearance? First impressions are absolutely imperative. When we next go to the city, I'll order you some clothes of your own tailored, but for now you will use mine. Now strip to your smallclothes."

Despite his hesitance, Denam liked the clothes he wore at the moment, Denam did as he was told. Sister always had a reason for what he did, after all. Oz picked up the first item, walked behind Denam, and started dressing him as if he were a child. Though he didn't want to admit it Denam wasn't quite sure how to put this. . .piece. . .on. It was tight around his waist and abdomen, and Denam could hear Oz tying it behind his back. It forced him to breathe more lightly, but it wasn't that bad; Denam could tell Oz had put it on rather loosely.

The rest of the clothes were normal and Denam let Oz dress him simply because it seemed to make his elder feel better. As they finished, Oz looked Denam up and down before nodding. Denam, curiosity getting the best of him, finally asked:

"Why red?"

Oz seemed all too willing to elaborate as he pointed to his own clothes.

"Red is the color of House Glacius. Is it not proper for the newest son of House Glacius to wear our colors as we do?"

Denam's smile lit the room, and Oz nodded. He seemed a bit less mopey, now, and quickly left Denam to his own devices. Picking up the other pairs of clothes Oz had left on his bed, he very gently placed them into a chest. This chest was very important to Denam, as it held the entirety of his very few possessions. Other than his new clothes, the only other items he had in there were some of his favorite books that Oz and Ozma had given to him, as well as a beautiful dagger that radiated with the power of Ice that Ozma had secretly made for him once she determined him strong enough in his magical abilities. Denam's movement was a bit stiff and uncomfortable in his new clothes, but Denam was sure he'd get used to it in time. After all, his sister wanted him to wear it, and who was he to deny such a wonderful present?

Going back over to the book, Denam closed it. It wasn't even worth his time. While he hated to give it back to Ozma without finishing it, he realized that he would get nothing from such beginner material. As much as he was loathe to admit it, he would rather read the book on modern worldwide political relations. This one had been a surprising gift from the High Commander, from a time he had met with him a few weeks before. It hadn't been their first encounter. Tartaros usually visited when he knew Oz was away, and their conversations were mostly about the state of politics in Valeria. Despite the High Commander's pleasant demeanor, Denam always came away from those talks feeling not only confused, but as if Tartaros was hiding something. He looked at the political book with some dread; Denam wasn't particularly looking forward to this, but he knew it would be better for him to read it. It couldn't be any worse than history, could it?

He was saved, temporarily, when there was yet another knock on the door. His sister certainly wouldn't be back so quickly. Opening it, he realized it was a servant with supper. Oz did not allow Denam to sup in the common room after that disaster Scales ago with Martym, so he had gotten used to eating in his room. Denam cleared his books off the table and the servant placed the tray onto it. Denam motioned for the servant to leave, but as he looked towards the door, he noticed someone was standing in his doorway. The figure was feminine and wearing black with an oversized hat. It seemed Denam truly would get no peace tonight.

The servant made a quick exit, noting Denam's dark glare, bowing deeply to the girl. What was her name? Denam couldn't remember, he just knew her as "Princess." Denam had been told to be respectful, but maintain his distance. Denam didn't move and tried his best not to glare the girl in the doorway. She was obviously trying to gain some composure and Denam was getting annoyed. He finally spoke:

"Are you going to just stand there? Or are you simply keeping my door open for your own amusement?"

That got her attention, and she stalked right in, slamming the door behind her in an un-womanly action. She placed her own tray on the other side of the table, across from Denam's. It seemed as if the girl truly didn't know how to keep her distance. Denam was annoyed. The girl picked at her food, and Denam watched her with his own discomfort. Turning down to his own food, Denam took his first sip of soup, and the Princess who shared his table finally spoke.

"I've heard the rumors, Denam." Denam didn't respond, choosing instead to take another sip of his soup. "I-I wanted to apologize. For Phidoch. For Almorica. I know you don't remember, but it's been eating me alive!"

"Whatever past encounters we might have had are simply that: the past. If you think you're going to regret doing something in the future, why initiate the act in the first place?"

The girl across from him gasped. Oh dear, he seemed to have hit a nerve. Denam took a casual sip of his wine, leaning back lazily. The Princess stared down at her food, finally starting to eat. She ate quickly, as if it were her escape. It frustrated Denam; all he wanted was to eat his dinner in peace, read his book, perhaps practice with Ozma, and then go to bed.

Denam was halfway done with supper before she spoke again.

"You even speak like them now. Your hair, your clothes, your voice. . .they're all so foreign to me. I want to think you're the Denam I remember, but I see nothing I recognize. The only familiarity in you is your name."

Sighing, Denam looked up and responded. "Have we not gone over this already? I don't know you."

The girl continued undeterred. It was as if Denam hadn't said anything at all. That annoyed Denam more than anything else, for Denam did not like being ignored. "I-I thought you were leaving me back in Almorica, with the Resistance. But I realize now how wrong I was. Back then, I left you. But now. . .now you've truly left me, even though you're right in front of me. All of my fears have come to pass."

The girl started sobbing and Denam wasn't quite sure what to do. He was apathetic, but Oz had told him that it was improper to make a woman cry if you were not making her scream at the same time. So he did nothing. Let the girl solve her own problems, for they were obviously caused by her irrational actions.

Denam went back to eating his dinner.

Just as he was finishing, the girl pushed her chair back and stood up quickly. She wasn't crying anymore, instead having an angry, determined look on her features. Denam decided she looked much better with the fire back in her eyes.

"You might not remember, Denam, but I do. I won't give up! You'll see! I'll make you come to your senses if I must hit you across the head myself!" Taking her tray with her, she stormed from the room.

Denam chuckled, a low, rich sound. Yes, the Princess was much better when she was angry.

* * *

><p>Denam didn't like Heim. The Bakram made horrible hosts: They were rude, disrespectful, and had an obnoxious arrogance that made Denam cringe. Denam hadn't been partial to all of the details, but from what he'd been able to glean from Oz and Ozma, who were remarkably tight lipped, and Martym, who was also the go-to man for any information regarding Loslorien's actions, Brantyn Morne hadn't been too pleased at Loslorien's independence and hadn't been willing to let the Princess take the throne, clutching instead to his own Regency. The Dark Knights ate him alive. They had taken the city of Heim with the help of the Walister and Galgastani commons, who were ferociously loyal to Princess Versalia. Apparently it had been a complete route, and Versalia would soon be on the throne.<p>

Or rather, she would have been put onto the throne if the Bakram hadn't risen up. The dissenters, much to Loslorien's surprise, had allied with the remains of the Walister Resistance. Their leader, as far as Denam was aware, was currently unknown, even to most of the members. They were a completely underground group, focusing on quick raids rather than actual attacks on the remaining Walister, Galgastani, Bakram-Valerian and Lodissian forces allied with Versalia. It was a stretch to say the war began anew, but it was certainly just elongating the pointless battle. Ah well, it wasn't Denam's problem that the Valerians acted like fools sometimes.

Unfortunately, this new Resistance meant that Denam spent most of him time alone, for both Oz and Ozma were afield. Now, with Oz afield, the new Resistance prisoners were piling up in Heim's dungeons. Denam had been surprised when one day Lanselot Tartaros came to Denam alone, asking for his assistance. Curious, but obedient and respectful, Denam asked the High Commander what he could do to help.

The High Commander demanded information. Not from him, of course, but from the prisoners. Tartaros was well aware that Oz has taught Denam ways of extracting information from prisoners and, since the High Commander would be going afield soon, could not spend the time and do it himself. He wanted Denam to assist with their questioning.

Denam, more than happy at being recognized as useful, complied with the High Commander's request immediately. By the time Tartaros had returned to Heim, Denam had all of the information had requested and more. Tartaros had been very pleased at Denam's obedience and willingness to serve. He had started giving Denam smaller duties, such as sending him out with some of the Bakram commanders to deal with the remaining rabble. While Denam enjoyed his time in Heim's dungeons, he didn't feel alive unless he on the field. Even if they were only small skirmishes, Denam's body had quickly remembered. His body had quickly become elegant with his familiarity with his sword, but he now mixed his style with the magic he had been practicing for Scales. He knew strategy, not only from reading, but it was as if he had encountered these same situations before. Soon he had earned his place when it came to his own small group of Bakram forces.

Soon after, the rumors started.

They say that Denam Pavel, former leader of the Resistance, still lived. Denam had been shocked; had he truly led the Resistance at one point? He wondered at how utterly foolish he could have been. Seeing the Resistance now, Denam wondered what had gone through his mind. Was he truly one of those stupid peasants at one point? It didn't matter, for he most certainly wasn't now, but the rumors continued despite Denam's own denial.

One night, after dinner and on the way to clean himself in a nearby river, Denam was besieged by three men. None of them looked familiar; one was a Winged with firey red-hair like his sister's, the other two wore the mark of Xenobian Knights. What were the Xenobians doing here? Denam was on his guard, sword in hand. The three didn't move, and Denam had a very bad feeling about this. The Winged finally spoke.

"So the whisperers speak true. You truly have joined the Dark Knights." The Xenobian accent was absolutely obnoxious, Oz had certainly been right about that.

Denam thought to correct him, for he hadn't by any means been sworn into Loslorien, but thought better of it. Before Denam could reply, a darker haired man approached. He seemed frustrated and was open with his emotions. Denam would have liked to play with this one, had he not been in such a dangerous predicament. Perhaps later.

"What idiocy has gone through your head? How could you abandon the Resistance? You spoke with such passion, such ideals! You were not one to abandon them. We thought you were a good-"

"Enough, Gildas. Look at him. Is this the Denam we knew?" The lighter haired Xenobian murmured softly. The Winged made a sound that agreed with him.

"So, you've me here, at your mercy, but I won't go down easily. What do you plan to do with me?" Denam replied as rationally as he could, given his caution and frustration, carefully filing away "Gildas's" comment about the Resistance for later use.

The three Xenobians looked at each other, sharing some silent conversation that Denam simply didn't understand. The Winged spoke up: "You may not be the Denam we were expecting to find, but our leader wants to speak with you nonetheless. If you come quietly, we won't have to resort to any drastic measures. None of us wish to fight you here tonight. Just give us your sword and come quickly and quietly."

His sword? Did they not realize he was just as proficient with his magic as his blade? Apparently not. Denam knew he didn't stand a chance in battle against the three, they were far too skilled, and Denam couldn't avoid an Archer along with two Knights no matter his skill in magic. He weighed the options. Would Oz consider him a traitor if he went with them? But was it worth his life? Then again, their "leader" wanted to see him. The Resistance's leader: a man who had been so elusive that not even the Dark Knights and their extensive information network had an inkling of his whereabouts. He was the only reason why this war was still going on. Even if it took his life, Denam needed to kill him. For Lodis, for Oz, and for himself, Denam would stop the Resistance in its tracks.

Cautiously nodding, Denam held out his sword to the trio, but didn't relax. He didn't trust the Xenobians. Who knew what games they would play with him? How long they traveled, and in what direction, Denam didn't know, but they never got out of range of the river. It wasn't long, no more than an hour, before they stopped. The darker-haired man, Gildas, he had been called, kicked aside what had appeared to be some undergrowth and brush, only to uncover a large wooden door on the ground. Gildas opened it, and motioned for Denam to go inside. Denam didn't move until he was pushed from behind by that obnoxious Winged. Denam wondered how loudly he would scream if Denam plucked out his feathers one by one and stabbed their quills into various organs. It might be fun to try later; the thought kept him amused enough to remain quiet.

As he entered, Denam was surprised to find the tunnel, if it could be called that, lit by candles. The air was filled with the harsh scent of smoke from the lack of ventilation. Only the Winged had entered with him, the two other Knights remained outside. Denam thought it was an extremely foolish move, but apparently they trusted him enough to only leave him with one guard. They would regret that mistake, Denam decided, but for now he'd best be obedient. He needed to meet their leader.

The cramped hallway quickly opened to a larger one with a half-dozen or so rooms, a trio on each side, and one large door at the end. It was impressive that they had made such a large underground base, Denam had to admit. The Winged rushed forward, opening the large door at the end. Denam cautiously entered, noting the room was a very traditional strategy chamber, with a large map and table. At the head of the table was a weary looking man in chainmail. The man was blond, hair dirty and unbrushed, and his face heavily scarred. Denam recognized the scar type; they were ones that came from torture. This man had relatively recently been a prisoner.

Despite the older man's relatively ragged appearance, he held an air of authority that even Denam had to be impressed at.

"Ah, Denam." The man spoke warmly, but his eyes ran up and down Denam's body, searching for anything that could possibly be a threat. Seemingly satisfied, the man motioned to the Winged. "Canopus, pour some water for our old friend. I'd like to have a discussion."

The Winged didn't move, instead replying: "With all due respect, Brother, I don't think Denam has any intention of having a discussion. You might not see it from there, but the look in his eyes screams of hate."

Denam frowned. Was he so open with his emotions? He heard the elder Knight laugh and his question was answered.

"Are we done yet? I find myself getting sick of this nonsense."

The blond man's expression hardened at Denam's words. Sighing, the Knight got up and walked over to face Denam. Canopus spoke first.

"The rumors were true. We found him near a Bakram camp, in command of a small detachment. He didn't seem to recognize us."

"Do you remember me, Denam? I know we're both different now, but certainly you've some heart for memories of your past."

Denam answered the older male truthfully. After all, there was no point in lying; his sister had told him that lying was for those who had things to hide, and Denam most certainly did not. He was proud of who he was. "No. I only know you are the Resistance Leader."

The man met Denam's eyes, searching for . . ._something. _Denam didn't blink.

"Do you remember anything, Denam? Or have the Lodissians poisoned your mind as well as your body?"

Denam hissed. "Do not speak of my sister such. You know nothing!"

Canopus and the Knight looked at each other, the Winged shrugged.

"What does Catiua have to do with this?"

It was Denam's turn to be confused.

"Catiua? The Princess? That annoying girl comes to visit me sometimes, but she's most certainly not my sister."

Another shared look. Denam felt like he was missing half of the conversation.

"So you've no memory. I am Lanselot. Lanselot Hamilton. We both fought for the Resistance once. My companions, the two Knights you met earlier, and Canopus here, were your allies. No-your friends."

"What of it? Surely you did not call me here to speak of the past." Denam channeled his magic; his advanced training allowed him to be subtle enough that only the most skilled would ever feel him draw it. Both of these men were too barbaric to use Magic properly, so Denam had the advantage, even if he was unarmed. He just needed to buy some time.

Hamilton put his hand onto his blade at Denam's hostility. Oh dear. Had Denam really been that obvious? Hamilton didn't move any further, though, and it seemed to only be a precautionary measure.

"Oh, Denam. I called you here for the truth. I needed to see you with my own eyes. The whispers say you serve the Dark Knights, but I see now that they were wrong. It is not the Dark Knights, but Lodis you serve." Hamilton's expression was a mixture of sadness and distaste. "Whoever your teacher, I am impressed at how thorough his work is."

Denam reminded himself to thank Oz later. Not only for the lessons, but for remembering to give him the ichor; it would serve him well this night.

"So you've seen me. Are we done yet? I'd like to at least get some sleep before the night is out."

Canopus was the one who replied.

"You're a lot more talkative than I remember. Mind your manners." Hamilton waved Canopus off.

"It's a shame, Denam, that things had to turn out this way. You were such a good lad that-"

It was time.

Denam fell to the ground, clutching his head. Canoups and Hamilton both immediately took a step back, not sure what was happening. Denam screamed, clutching at his hair and chest.

In secret, Denam had pulled his ichor from its small holder. This was risky and Denam knew it would make his strategy far dangerous than if he did otherwise, but if Denam was going to barbarically murder, he'd at least bring a prize back with him.

"Ah! Catiua?" Denam screamed. "My head! Sister!" Denam forced tears to fall, and curled up on the ground. Breathing heavily and eyes blurred with false tears, Denam recognized the form of Hamilton standing over him. Good, the man was as soft-hearted as he'd imagined.

Denam continued his ridiculous act for a moment more as Hamilton tried to help him, before releasing a cold wave of his magic, strong enough to temporarily freeze any man nearby. Freezing both Canopus and Hamilton in such a manner, even if only for a few seconds, was exhausting and took almost all of his strength. Denam moved with an efficiency born of practice in order to finish his work before they recovered. Taking out the dagger Ozma had given him, which he always hid it in his corset, Denam lined it with ichor in a quick motion. Slashing down Hamilton's sword arm using the ichor-lined dagger infused with Denam's power, he forced the now-recovering Hamilton to the ground, taking the Xenobian's sword from his sheathe. Without a thought, he used most of his strength to violently draw the large blade over Hamilton's neck, removing the man's head.

At the force of the slash, Denam fell backwards. Unfortunately, at this point, Canopus was completely recovered and Denam knew he needed to leave before this situation became any messier. Grasping the former Resistance leader's hair in one hand, his own bloody knife in his teeth, and the Holy Knight's sword in the other hand Denam fled down the hallway as quickly as he could before the Vartan could start firing at him.

But the arrows never came. He hadn't done any permanent damage to Canopus, so why hadn't the Winged shot at him? Denam didn't have time to ponder the Winged's motivations as he pushed the door open and fled into the night. Through fate or some disgusting stroke of luck, the other Xenobians weren't outside. Denam didn't wait for their return, instead running towards the sound of the river. He could find his way back from there.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

It had taken Denam well over an hour to find his way back to the small town, but when he did he immediately awakened the Bakram, ordering them back to Heim. It was a quick stop, as Denam didn't know if the Xenobians were after him, so he had to keep moving. Getting atop a horse, Denam didn't stop until he reached Heim.

It was a bit strange, Denam mused, walking through a very large, very busy great hall with a decapitated head in your arm. Denam ignored the looks he received and instead made his way to the High Commander's chambers. After a moment of waiting, he was permitted entry. Lanselot Tartaros gave Denam, who was now standing across from him, a questioning look, glancing at Denam's Hamilton-bloodied form. Amused, Denam tossed the head onto the table in front of him. Balxephon, who Denam hadn't noticed until now, physically withdrew from the head, and the High Commander had an unreadable expression. The silence was eating away at Denam and it was a few moments before Balxephon finally commented.

"Was that. . .really necessary?" Tartaros silenced Balxephon with a wave of his hand. But Denam wasn't done yet. He held out the blade that Hamilton had been using. Seemingly surprised, Tartaros took the blade, as Denam elaborated with a bored, playful, tone.

"The leader of the Resistance asked me to give this to you."

* * *

><p><em>. . .Your life in the service of the Great father. . .Lodis. . .Protect its people. . .Obedience. . .<em>

Oz paid very little attention as the old priest droned on. He had been warned that acting as a witness to Oaths was dull, but he hadn't realized it would be like this; sitting silently, watching, nodding offhandedly whenever witnessing was mentioned. But it was Denam, and Oz would stick through it for him. Oz barely remembered swearing his own Oaths, years ago. They had occurred during the blur of political upheaval and had had seemed so unimportant at the time. Oz tapped his fingers impatiently, dark armor clicking loudly against stone. This earned him a glare from most of the room, and Oz held back his laughter.

In truth, the Oaths were nothing more than formality. Denam had been working "unofficially" for Loslorien for Scales now, before they had even returned to Galius. Denam had denied taking the Oaths immediately upon return, saying that he was not yet Lodissian and it was an insult to the country for him to do so. The whole scenario found Oz confused, as Denam had quickly been accepted into House Glacius at his and Ozma's pressuring. The elders of House Glacius were not foolish enough to deny one of such skill, especially one so loyal and devoted, even moreso under the pressure of Oz and Ozma, who held the favor of Lanselot Tartaros.

Denam had finally requested to take his Oaths once Valeria had been officially merged with the Empire saying he finally believed himself worthy enough to serve his country.

As the priest's words finally drew to a close and Denam's words echoed through the empty hall, Oz and the High Commander stood. Tartaros shook Denam's hand, congratulating him and Denam responded with a confident, if severe, look and quiet thanks. Done with the High Champion Denam turned to Oz, and one of his familiar bright smiles grew his features. The smiles never ceased to lighten Oz's mood, no matter how dark his previous thoughts. Oz remained standing as Denam rushed over to him, encircling Oz with a powerful hug. Oz returned the gesture in kind, running a hand down Denam's back.

"Congratulations, brother."

* * *

><p>Her Majesty Versalia Oberyth, better known as Catiua to those familiar with her, looked to the sky, tears in her eyes. She clutched her necklace, a gift from her father before she had even been born; but it was not her father that had her crying. After she had become Queen, Catiua had sworn she would never cry again, but always on this day, every year, the silent tears would form and she could not stop them.<p>

For today was Denam's birthday and a horrible reminder of the worst mistake of Catiua's life.

Now Catiua was Queen only in name. In bowing to Lodis, she had effectively signed Valeria's soul over to them. The country had been "united" with the Empire. "United" was such a light way to put it, as "swallowed" was more accurate. Even a decade in the future Catiua imagined that what little remained of Valeria would no long remain, only to fully metamorphosis of the giant called Lodis. Even her title of Queen was formality; Lodis had a regent in Valeria who acted as an "advisor." The truth of the matter was that her "advisor" made every decision, while Catiua smoothed them over with the people.

But that had not been her worst mistake. No, her worst mistake was more childish, far more selfish than trying to save her country: Catiua had left her brother.

In her selfishness, Catiua had run away; that had been the beginning of the end of everything. The moment before her flight had been the last time she had ever interacted with Denam. Or at least, the Denam she grew up with. In Phidoch, Catiua had acted like such a stupid child, threatening Denam with her own inexperienced swordplay and then running off to hide behind Lanselot Tartaros. She had seen the pain in Denam's eyes, along with his confusion. Catiua had done nothing to alleviate Denam's pain, instead only trying to amplify its intensity.

Soon after, Catiua had heard that Phidoch fell, but no one had known what happened to Denam Pavel. Catiua had begged Tartaros to find any information he could about Denam's whereabouts, but the Templar had been surprisingly apathetic, saying he could not risk any of his shadows for rumors of a dead man.

So she had listened to the rumors herself, until one day, she heard the Templars speaking. Catiua had thought she was hearing things at first, but they _were _talking about Denam, and he was in Barnicia! Catiua ran back to Tartaros, ignoring the fact that Ozma and Balxephon were in his office, discussing whatever it was Lodissian Commanders discussed, and demanded answers. Tartaros, surprisingly, had obliged Catiua, saying that Denam was indeed in Barnicia and asked Ozma to bring Catiua to meet with him after she had finished changing.

But it wasn't Ozma who returned to her. It was her brother, Oz. Catiua had always stayed away from the man, since she'd heard whispers of his twisted and sadistic games. His demeanor was respectful enough, and there was a light smile on his face, which made Catiua lower her guard. It had been a horrible mistake to underestimate the man.

When she saw Denam for the first time after Phidoch, she had frozen. He had looked so young, so innocent. It was as if time had reverted in age by 10 years and was an impressionable boy again. Denam didn't seem to respond to her, and Catiua wondered if he was angry. Instead, the Knight Commander spoke gently with Denam, until Denam finally noticed Catiua. That was the first time Catiua had heard him call Oz "sister." At first, she had mistaken his meaning, thinking that Denam was referring to her. Catiua hadn't realized the implications and importance of Oz being Denam's "sister" until Scales later.

Not knowing about his memory, or lack thereof, Denam's violent response had torn Catiua apart. Never before had she felt as broken as she had at Denam's rejection and had fallen to the ground, incapacitated by her emotions. Looking back, she realized that she deserved it; after all, she had done exactly the same thing to Denam in Phidoch. As Oz had escorted her out, he had laughed in her face, telling Catiua to mind her own business in the future. Catiua had fled to her room and hadn't left until Tartaros threatened to stop the servants from delivering her meals.

The next time she saw Denam, it wasn't Denam at all. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the last time she saw Denam Pavel was at Phidoch castle. Every other meeting after she had met a different Denam, one Denam Moh Glacius. This "new" Denam had been terrifying in some ways, but alluring in others. He was foreign, exotic, taking the best, and worst, traits of the Lodissians, but mixing them with his familiarity and nostalgia. She knew this Denam well, but at the same time she didn't know him at all.

Despite her overall distaste for the "new" Denam, Catiua had to admit one thing went right: he had started showing his emotions. Pavel - or Morne, as had been revealed to her later - had been stoic, quiet, and excellent at keeping his thoughts to himself. Moh Glacius was open, blunt, and spoke his thoughts with such confidence that it was impossible not to believe him.

Catiua had continued visiting him over the course of the next few Scales, but each time he treated her with more and more distance. At one point she had even gotten on the floor and begged, only to meet Denam's eyes and be shocked at his ruthless cruelty; he enjoyed having her at his mercy.

The last time Catiua had seen Denam was after Heim had been taken. She had not interacted with him then, for she could not stand to do so, but she had watched. He was good with his Bakram troops. From a distance, she could swear it was the same Denam she had grown up with. It was an odd feeling, hoping the very Denam Catiua herself had abandoned would return.

She heard rumors of him. The most commonly spoken rumor was about his rise in House Glacius. They say he was one of the best Ice casters they had ever produced. One rumor even said he had married, but Catiua had never heard a follow-up on that and she couldn't begin to imagine who would marry a man like Denam Moh Glacius. Rumors about Loslorien were extremely difficult to hear, given their "underground" work. She had dug a bit, and the most she could get was that Denam had been promoted to Knight Commander. Catiua felt some twisted sense of pride at that, for at least Denam had done well for himself.

So, here remained Catiua: alone, disgraced, worthless. Her life had very little meaning other than as a tool for Lodis. But she was okay with it, after all, she was still serving her country and her people. If she could even bring about a small bit of happiness, it would be worth her sacrifice.

Catiua clutched a small bag to her chest. It had been all she had taken with her when she went with Loslorien for the first time. In her rush to prepare for leaving with Tartaros, Catiua had accidentally taken one of Denam's possessions: a pack of tarot cards. Tonight, Catiua took them out of the bag, stroking the box gently before finally opening it and staring curiously at the designs. They were worn, but Catiua had never seen Denam use them before. She had never understood why Denam kept them, often confronting him about it, but never receiving a direct answer.

She didn't know what provoked her, but she picked out a card at random. World, it said. On the card was a beautiful woman. Holding it to her heart, along with all of her memories of Denam, Catiua spoke aloud a phrase she thought she had grown out of years ago:

"What if. . .?"

* * *

><p>Ending Notes:<p>

1. I often mention "ichor" during the climax of the story, in fact making a relatively big deal about it. This is a reference to Coda Episode 4. Said ichor allows for Oz (and Denam, in this case) to keep bodies preserved "as fresh as the day they were killed." In other words, Denam was making sure that Tartaros received Hamilton's "present" in perfect condition.

2. Notice any minor inconsistencies between Catiua's version of the story and Denam's/Oz's? Those were intentional, but subtle and unimportant enough that I can imagine Catiua changing them in her own mind.

3. Does Catiua use WORLD to change history? That's up for you to decide. After all, that is how Coda approaches the subject, and that is how I will. I like to think the story is "Happily ever after" for Denam, but for those less satisfied with the results, perhaps Catiua does accidentally go back.

4. Wondering where I got some of the information regarding Ozma and Oz? All routes have a little spat between the two at some point, with a slightly more elaborate one on Chaos. Also in all routes, Ozma scolds Oz at some point, including in Coda where she scolds him multiple times in the same battle! Neutral route tells us that Ozma is the elder of the two.


	5. Chaos: OlivyaMartym

For those who disliked my previous story, this one just might please you.

This story takes place in Chapter 4. I've not made a strict determination of which path it is, exactly, so it could be said to happen on all routes. The only definite storyline decision made is that the Princess is alive. It's an OlivyaMartym piece taking place in Grimsby before the encounter with Lindl.

This story is meant to elaborate on Olivya's growth and conflicts, while also leading up to her eventual ending sequence in canon where she finally, finally, does something for herself. While _Chaos _does not include the same dark themes or violence as the previous chapter, it does include Martym. By virtue of his existence alone, expect harsh, verbal cruelty, as well as the Fiction's titular "Lust."

Edit: Some months later, I've returned to edit this fiction. I don't think the original did the pair justice and I wanted to clean it up a bit.

_**Chaos**_

* * *

><p>Grimsby was a strange town, with its buildings that were built so closely together that they touched, its roads nonexistent, and the only paths were on the roofs. The buildings were well made and Olivya never feared she would fall through into someone's home, but she could not imagine ever living in such a city. Could the citizens hear the footsteps of those who walked on the "street" above them? It was an almost total lack of privacy that the Sibyl knew would drive her mad.<p>

Olivya had never seen anything like the small city, but, for that matter, as she had traveled with Denam she had quickly learned there existed many events and creatures she had not even imagined before. At times the Isles terrified her, such as when she had seen an army of undead dragons marching as their enemy, their flesh half decayed, bones exposed, their jaws forced open from the lack of muscles and, most deeply ingrained within her, the _smell_. Dragons alone were terrifying enough, but such horde undead beasts, cursed by men to an eternity of pain and suffering without the touch of the Great Father had rendered Olivya temporarily immobile, unable to comprehend what she saw, unsure as how to respond. It had been all Olivya could do to stand her ground as she shook, her tremors so violent that they almost made her slip in the mud. She had faced death, she had killed others, but the sight of such monstrosities had shaken her to her core. It had only been through her greatest of willpower that she remained steadfast and refused to flee. Denam's confident command, his warm voice and supportive presence gave her the strength she needed to exorcise the foul beasts.

Olivya hadn't been the only one terrified; the Princess, Catiua, had been nervous as well, but she hid it better than Olivya. The woman's hand shook on her blade and she had not been able to draw it from its sheath, but unlike with Olivya, Denam had gently held Catiua's hand, and spoke words of reassurance the Sibyl could not quite hear that allowed the Princess to stand her ground. For that Olivya could respect the other woman, but in the back of her mind she could not help but feel a bit of resentment at how the commander had focused his full attention on his 'sister,' without so much as a glance back towards her. Olivya immediately forced the thought from her mind in shame and regret, but the bitter rejection left a mark on her. Denam hadn't even turned to her. The memory replayed itself over and over, even though it had been over a week since that day. The Phoraena tried to convince herself it was because Denam had faith in her ability to take care of herself that he did not need to worry for her, but the niggling voice at the back of her mind, or perhaps the depths of her heart, told her it was because Catiua was first in Denam's mind and always would be.

Throughout that terrifying scenario, Denam was as calm as ever; Olivya often wondered if Denam ever showed fear, he was always so controlled in the face of strong opposition. She had seen him show other emotions, such as happiness, pain, sorrow, and shock, but never fear or hesitation, almost as if he was at his very strongest when he had a battle to fight, a clear goal to pursue. He was a great leader, in that, and kept his troops calm and composed when they needed it most. Catiua might be their future ruler, but it was Denam who truly led. Olivya looked up to him more than she had anyone else; he held a strength she wished she could bring herself to show. She had never had the leadership qualities of Cerya or the determination of Sherri; she was not spectacular in any way. That was primarily why she so desperately so to change herself; she had to someday gain the strength and confidence, the skill to protect herself – but the question was: _How?_

Olivya walked across the roofs of Grimsby silently as she enjoyed the feel of rain, little more than a drizzle, that had started less than an hour earlier. Olivya had always loved rain; the Sibyl looked up to the sky and let the droplets fall onto her forehead with a hidden smile. The weather relaxed and calmed her, and, in a sense, Olivya had always sought to be like the rain: calming, purifying, but also steady and powerful. A giver of life. She might not be strong, determined, ruthless, or have passionate convictions, like her sisters, but she knew what she was and what she had the ability to do – to heal the damage, both physical and spiritual, of those who had suffered in the war. The Sibyl cupped her hands as tilted her head back down towards the road so that she did not drip; the small cup her hands made very, very, slowly filled into a small pool that sloshed about before the woman let it fall to the ground almost a a full minute later.

As a child, Olivya remembered being read to by her sisters when it rained. Their father had often been busy and had no time for small children, so Cerya and Sherri had taken care of her as a babe. In her mind were feelings and emotions rather than actual memories, for Olivya had been very young, but she most vividly remembered the soft drum of rain along with the comfort of the crackling fireplace along with the confident presence of her elder sisters. She and Cistina had been close enough in age that they were always together under the same blanket when it was time for lessons or stories. When it came to weather, however, the rain was one of the drastic differences between the youngest Phoraena sisters. Cistina had always preferred the bright sunny, clear skies, with a blowing wind playing through her hair, while Olivya preferred the darker skies where droplets of rain would land on her face and the gentle dewdrops that would slide off the tips of the plants in the verdant countryside. She had always loved how when she and Denam would run through the fields the water droplets would caress her legs, even if she had always ended up cold afterwards.

At last the young woman reached what appeared to be the highest point in town. The Sibyl stretched, more awake than ever, and sat down on the wall, ground cold but only barely wet with a soft, deflated, sigh. She looked over the town; very few people were about and those that were all had thick hoods on, and rushed from door to door. From what Olivya could tell, the guards had not put torches on the city walls and the woman knew she very likely would have some difficulty when she returned to camp from the utter darkness. The back of her mind fantasized that she would slip and fall down and die, much like the highly-publicized account of the late Prince's death. If anyone could see Olivya, it was likely that they thought her insane; there were times that Olivya thought it of herself, so she could hardly blame them.

Olivya was tired. Her duty overwhelmed her; she had not done anything for herself in more than half of her life and never thought to do so. Once, when ill, one of her companions, a young Priest, asked if she would like to take time to herself to recuperate. Her answer had been immediate, without any internal debate: Olivya would not abdicate her duty, she would continue to work, even in sickness. 'Twas how it had been for almost a third of her life; the Phoraena woman devoted herself entirely to her family and the church, and it exhausted her. There were times when Olivya wanted nothing more to hide in her room and accept those small selfish whims, such as sleeping _just_ that extra hour, but her sense of responsibility always got the better of her. Every morning she always forced herself from her bed and dressed herself so that she would arrive to prayer promptly.

Olivya would always be second. This was a fact that had ruled her since she started to form rational thoughts about herself and her life. Their father had placed his daughters second to his political games. Olivya had been all-but-abandoned by her sisters, second to their own goals and purposes, to the point where she hadn't spoken to some of them for years before meeting with Denam again. She was second even to herself; she would always put duty above her own wishes. Even more, Olivya was second in Denam's eyes, a pain that struck her more deeply than she would dare admit.

It wasn't like her to be overwhelmed with such self-pity. Perhaps her feminine blood approached and, along with it, her emotions rose and fell like the waves? The Sibyl offhandedly wiped the water, now merged into more than droplets from a heavier rain, off of her legs, but stopped in shock as she heard footsteps, wet and heavy, draw close from behind. She wasn't well versed in the arts of self defense and Olivya felt particularly vulnerable in her position high atop the city, where if she slipped she could very well fall to her death. As far as she could tell, only a single person was near, and it was a man due to the deep voice and its curses she could hear under his breath. His accent marked him as Lodissian. Olivya's breath caught in her chest and felt her body stiffen in tenseness at the implications. She forced herself to release the distress as best she could; The Phoraena woman held back her shakes as she did her best to remain calm and rationalize the situation out. There was no need for panic; there were Lodissians who lived in Valeria and were not with, nor did they support, the Dark Knights. Not all had hostile intentions regarding the Isles. There was no need for panic until she had more knowledge of the subject. Her calming worked, to an extent, and her shakes subsided - at least until the man noticed her presence and she heard his footsteps come within no more than three paces. Olivya turned away and pretended she hadn't seen or heard him and bit her bottom lip in nervousness.

The man stopped and stood behind her, far too close for comfort at no more than a pace away, and Olivya wrung her hands, not sure what to say, or if she should say anything at all. The silence was deafening; as it pressed on she felt the urge to scream in anxiety and uncertainty as her mind kept imagining being kicked off the ledge. It took almost a full five minutes before the Sibyl finally gathered her courage. She drew her knees close and pressed her hands against the now-completely wet rooftop and stood up and turned towards her guest, a well-practiced, feigned bright smile on her features.

"Good evening, sir. Is there a problem?" Her tone was too sweet; she internally scolded herself for how obvious and artificial her words were.

The man looked thoroughly miserable, his hair was plastered against his head and his clothes, dark things that clung to him in the rain, were unidentifiable in color, but his top appeared a deep blue, or style other than that the material was thick and richly tailored. Droplets of water dripped down his features and his eyes looked. . .odd, 'twas all she could think to describe it. They were not irrational, nor did he appear completely intoxicated, but she would be hard pressed to call them 'sane,' or 'controlled.' Olivya realized she probably looked similar, with the water that had long-since ceased to be droplets and instead clung to her and seeped through her clothes, not to mention her expression, which she knew held an unfamiliar darkness and sternness despite the attempted smile. Her demeanor was in off contrast to her normal self, and certainly her emotions had gone entirely in the opposite direction of what she had intended when she entered the rain, namely, to wander in search of calmness and peace. Finally, as if he debated internally just as much as she did, the man grumbled a reply that Olivya couldn't hear. She tried again, with more confidence; the Sibyl was proud that her tone seemed less feigned and more natural.

"Sir, are you well? Perhaps you'd best go inside."

The man grunted and looked Olivya over, his eyes searched up and down her robes before they landed on her thighs for a prolonged moment. He did not bother to look up as he spoke, but his words held an odd playfulness that seemed out of place with his earlier dark scowl. "Nice pants."

Olivya felt her jaw drop in shock. She wore the robes of a Sibyl and none from Valeria who served the Great Father would dare mock her. She worked her mouth, but no words came out; surely, she must have misheard. "E-Excuse me?"

"How do you tolerate walking about like that?" He motioned to her legs before his gaze finally rose to her face. His eyes were strong and Olivya looked away, a blush on her cheeks that she could not control. "Are you asking for someone to take you? Perhaps someone special is on your mind?" He laughed, a harsh, grating sound, and Olivya's hands formed fists in her anger that burned away her earlier shock and shame. _Calm, Olivya, calm. Be like the rain_. The words did not soothe her.

"Do they not teach men manners in Lodis?" She bit out between clenched teeth.

The laughter continued as if Olivya had said nothing at all. "Your clothes, you're a Sibyl. Perhaps you expose yourself so you can better serve on your knees?" He sneered and laughed to himself and obviously expected some reaction from her – one that never came. Olivya felt as if there was some hidden meaning about the comment that she missed, she simply drew her eyebrows together in confusion.

"Yes, I'm a Sibyl. What of it?" Olivya replied cautiously. Something about the man put her on edge; or perhaps it was not just a single trait, but all of them. His manner, his words, his ethnicity, and their topic of conversation all told her she would do best to run away, yet her legs did not move. The man frowned at her lack of response, his face held something akin to dissatisfaction with his lightly pursed lips.

"Surely a Sibyl has something better to do than stand out here in the rain?" The amusement was gone from his voice, but he did not speak it as a question, instead as a statement.

It was Olivya's turn to return the frown, not quite sure how to answer, or what the man expected of her. She was not quite sure what she expected of herself. "No. No, I've nothing better to do."

"Your accent - you're Bakram, from Heim, if I'm not mistaken. What are you doing in this dump?" The man jerked his head to the side and motioned towards the town.

Olivya's immediate reaction was to correct him and tell him that it was most improper to say such things about the town. The thought faded away almost as quickly as it arrived as she realized, to her horror, she felt similarly – identically, even. Why was she here? The town was dirty, and there was nothing Olivya could do to help the people of the city that the other Sibyls in Denam's Order could not. She had come for introspection the rain, but certainly, the weather would have refreshed her more if she remained in the clean wilderness.

"Surely you're not interested in my life story, Sir." She remained cautious, not sure what he wanted from her or what he expected her to tell him.

The man did not reply immediately and instead walked to her side. He kneeled down carefully, as to not slip over the edge, and sat. He motioned for Olivya to do the same, and patted the ground next to him. Olivya took a step back in shock at his boldness, but more, in fear and distrust. He certainly did not expect her to get so close to a man she did not know, let alone trust? The man shrugged at her reaction and turned his attention back towards the town that Olivya had looked at earlier. Even though she already saw all these was to see, and there certainly was not much of a view in the darkness, Olivya followed his gaze as she remained standing, no more than a pace away from her new companion. The only sound between them was the patter of rain and the soft rustle of wet clothes in the wind, not even the calls of the guards made its way up to the higher levels. Despite her earlier fear, Olivya found herself more relaxed than she had been before the man arrived.

Finally, as her fear melted away when it became obvious the man had no wish to harm her, Olivya spoke. "I thought I was here to follow my dream: To save my country, to be with the man I love." Olivya looked down in shame as she realized how childish it sounded when she spoke it aloud. She was a woman; she should have given up those dreams long ago.

"So you're with the Resistance." Olivya nodded, and spoke a small sound of agreement in case the man did not see. "Filthy mongrels, that bunch. A well-bred woman like yourself shouldn't be with them." Her companion's voice was acidic and cruel and his lips curled up in a sneer.

Olivya frowned and spoke the first thing that came to mind. "You shouldn't say such things."

The man spat, the phlegm disappearing into the darkness below. "Did your boyfriend tell you to say that shit? Or was it your God?"

"I-! You-!" Olivya hesitated, she desperately wanted to reprimand him, but her words did not make it to her lips. As much as she denied him on the surface, the depths of her mind, ones she usually ignored, whispered that he only spoke a truth she, too, believed. She simply recited off words she had spoken for years, not necessarily because she believed them, but because it was her duty to do so. She had not even thought before she spoke; her duty was so ingrained to her that she couldn't even _think _on her own. The realization horrified her.

"I thought so." His voice did not hold the satisfaction she thought it would. "You pretend to be some great paragon of justice, but just like all of the others, you've not a single original thought in your empty little head. Speak your mind for once. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." He laughed, as if he had spoken some grand joke.

Olivya shook, but she did not know the reason why. She told herself she was cold, after all, she'd been in the rain for some time, but stopped immediately and so jarringly it caused her to hold her breath. She had just attempted to lie to herself to conceal the truth of her thoughts and emotions. The Phoraena knew full well that she shook from rage and anger, and sadness at the realization of how little she knew of herself. She never spoke her mind because she had been taught not to, 'twas inappropriate, she had been told. This man could read her like a book, and he didn't even know her name! It hurt, not because she was so open, but because he spoke only the truth. She tried, one last time, to deny the man, but her voice broke and Olivya felt as if she was on the verge of tears.

"I couldn't be that selfish. There's no point to my moping."

"Sometimes it's good to be selfish." He did not condescend, but she dare not believe he was empathetic. "Now sit down here and tell me what's on your mind, girl."

The Sibyl hung her head in shame, unable to resist him. No – she simply had no desire to resist, as he spoke to her something she should have been told years in the past. Olivya finally closed the pace between them and sat down to the left of the dark-haired man on the wet roof. She buried her face in her hands and started to speak, a hesitant whisper that only became more powerful as she elaborated more and more of what troubled her. Olivya found once she got started, she simply could not stop.

"I tell myself that I'm here for my father, to finish what he started. My duty binds me to my family, yet not a word of thanks or appreciation do they speak! But that's my lie – I'm not here for Father, or for my sisters; I'm here for Denam just as much as I am my country. I thought if I went with him, to help him fulfill his dreams, he'd notice me. Instead he does not remember me and his mind is always on his bloody sister. So I keep quiet, and watch him from behind, in hopes that someday he might turn around to see my smiling face. Instead he keeps walking, wrapped up in his work. I am just another warrior to him." Olivya took a deep breath and lifted her face from her hands. The man watched her in silence for almost a full minute before he replied, almost as if to give her time to regain emotional control. There was no pity in his tone, only a harshness that Olivya knew she deserved.

"And so here you are, a pathetic child who yearns for a man who doesn't want her. I bet you touch yourself every night, imagining it's him because you know that you're too much of a child to make a move on your own!" The tears started to fall, indistinguishable from the warm rain, but the man wasn't done with his verbal assault of truth. He seemed intent to tear Olivya apart, his words stuck into her like a hook in a small river fish "Your whole life you've let others make decisions for you. Look where it has led you! 'Tis time to take a stand."

Despite his harsh, cruel words, he turned towards her, and looked her up and down. He noticed her tears immediately and moved close to wipe them off with surprising gentleness that contradicted his harsh manner. His closeness remained and a moment later she felt the touch of two fingers on her knee, then his entire hand on her thigh as he brushed the water away and made its way up, touch delicate. He didn't stop with touch, but instead ran his fingers up the fold of her dress, a motion that caused her to shiver inadvertently, and played with her underclothes.

"W-W-What are you doing?" Olivya demanded, but her words were breathy for reasons not entirely rational. The man's other arm encircled her waist and his fingers stroked up and down the curve between her hips and breasts; a warm tingle passed through her, familiar and but at the same time entirely exotic, previously unprovoked by the touch of any man. He did not stop with her waist and brought his hand up her breast, shoulder and neck, where he turned her face towards him. The Lodissian brought his mouth to her neck, she could barely feel the soft motion against the rain, which seemed to pound harder than ever against her skin, and roughly nipped his way up until he reached her mouth. The man parted her lips with his tongue and kissed Olivya until she was breathless, his taste unlike anything she had ever experienced. His free arm stopped its stroke of her leg and encircled her completely as he pulled her towards him; his hands played with her left breast. Unlike the earlier kiss, there was no delicacy in that action, only pure lust.

"Tonight, you are going to do something for yourself, no one else. I will give you what that brat of a boy cannot." His hand had made its way completely under her dress and Olivya held him, not sure if she wanted to demand he stop or beg him to continue. What would Denam think? Olivya hesitated for a moment, before touching the man's hand, in silent request that he stop. He obeyed as she searched for words to convey her thoughts.

"Wait." She whispered. She didn't know why she was doing this, why she even remained beside the man, whose fingers were still under her dress and toyed with her nipple roughly. It was so very wrong. Everything inside her was telling her to run away, and yet the man's words were a poison that had filled her very soul. He _knew_ her. He _understood_. She could not deny he was right and that she had lied to herself for far too long. She felt dirty, but 'twas the same part of her, the one that had tried to make her lie to herself, that demanded she stop – a part of her she did not wish to listen to, a part of her that had dominated her life and had closed her mind. She rejected the force, for the first time in her life, and gave into the warmth that spread throughout. Her next words were spoken only so that she would know who she gave herself to. "Tell me your name."

The man gave a cruel smile as he brought his lips back down to her earlobe as he whispered in his soft Lodissian accent: "Martym."

"Martym" she whispered as he pushed her back against the roof, the rain pounded down on them both, no longer a soft drizzle. The ground was cold and wet, but Olivya barely noticed it as she clutched at the warm body of the man on top of her as he removed her clothes and touched her flesh with both his hands and his lips.

* * *

><p>Much later, Olivya finally found her way back to the camp outside of town, despite the utter darkness and her exhaustion. Her hair was a disaster, and she was frozen from her prolonged exposure to the elements, but she had never felt more <em>alive<em>. She felt as if she knew herself better than she ever had before; in what she had rejected, she had also come to accept that part of her existed. No longer was she forced to follow her beliefs blindly, simply because they were instilled into her, but she had made the conscious choice to accept them and to think if such was necessary.

The woman passed through the camp and brightly smiled at everyone she met, mood lighter than she could ever remember it. Not even Denam accepting her into the Resistance pleased her so. The woman sat herself down by the large fire at the center of camp and warmed herself while she offhandedly ran her fingers through her hair in attempt to untangle the knots.

From across the fire, she heard the familiar voices of Denam and Catiua, as well as their strategic entourage. She listened offhandedly, as they spoke of rumors and the importance of the nearby city. Olivya was not particularly interested in strategy at the moment, and would have much preferred a bath, but her breath caught in her throat as she heard Denam's words between crackles in the large bright bonfire that illuminated the main camp.

"The shadows say that a detachment of Dark Knights is in Grimsby. While they didn't show themselves when we were there earlier, we've enough reports to determine it's not a rumor or a coincidence. I'm told they're led by Martym, one of the Templars who sacked Rhime. . ."

Olivya froze in horror, the realization of what she'd done hit her.

Yet, she stopped the thought before it could progress into shame. Just for tonight, Olivya promised Martym that she would think for herself, without the chains and binds of her responsibility, of what others thought of her, and what she thought was "right." Olivya Phoraena did not regret her actions with the Loslorien Knight Commander, for they were her first step on the road to independence.

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><p>Would you believe that this was originally intended to be fluff?<p>

Why Martym?

The answer is quite simple: thematically, they compliment each other well. Olivya is the "Water" sister, but also uses Light magic. Martym's unique weapon and build are water-based, and he also uses Light magic. Him being a Chaotically aligned character also suited my purposes.


	6. Loyalty: VyceCistina

This story takes place near the end of 3C. Its main setting is in Rhime, after Vyce kills Ronwey and flees from Tartaros and the Dark Knights, with a pairing of VyceCistina.

Writing Cistina is a bit strange.

Wondering why you're encountering hostility in Walister-controlled land? Trying to _negotiate_ with _Pirates?_ Ah, Cistina, surely you're not the brightest crayon in the box. I've tried to incorporate a bit of that air-headedness into her character while also trying to keep her other dominant traits, that is, her stubborn refusal to fight and willingness to disobey orders to help others. It was challenging, but fun. I can't say she's very _interesting, _though.

**_Loyalty_**

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><p>Denam had changed since Sir Leonar's death. He was a bit quieter, and oftentimes his troops would find him silent, staring out at the wilderness. Not that he had much else to do on this horrible trail.<p>

Though Cistina had not known Denam very long compared to the senior members of the Order, she could see the dark circles under his eyes and noticed his now-calmer demeanor. It hadn't been until Cerya had mentioned it, back when she had left the Front, that she realized that she knew Denam from when her family had lived in Heim. Cistina's fondest memory of the younger male was pulling at his hair one day after they had gotten into an argument about which rock was prettier. Olivya and the young Catiua had both sided with Denam and the argument persisted as 3-1 until both Sherri and Cerya had interfered, earning them all a scolding.

The Burnham Massif's trail was one of the most miserable places Cistina had ever been. Cistina had seen blood, death, had survived almost being sold into slavery as well as the sack of Rhime. Despite her experience, never once had she been so miserable for such a prolonged period as she had traveling the time-worn trail. Demon attacks were constant and at one point Cistina thought she would collapse, only to be caught by Folcurt, his steady hand giving her the strength to continue. A few hours later, during a rest break, even Denam had come to ask Cistina if she was well. It was then Cistina knew that she must look absolutely terrible. Denam was so kind, but he was also single-minded. That he had turned to Cistina meant that he could see something was wrong with her.

Avoiding his question, Cistina asked in return:

"What about you, Denam? You push yourself so hard, yet it's always you who asks about us."

In an instant, Cistina saw exactly what Denam was trying to hide: his exhaustion, his fear, his loneliness. He looked like a broken child crouching in a dark street corner, waiting for someone to give him the crust of their bread. But after that quick second, Denam's mask returned and he had smiled at Cistina, thanking her for her concern, but telling her to worry more about herself. After that, Cistina had spent more time standing by Denam, trying to relieve some of his burden. Cistina understood her own weaknesses and, as her sister would say, blind ignorance, but in her devotion to peace, it also gave her greater empathy towards others. She stood by Denam's side as a pillar of strength; she understood what it was like to lose a sister, after all, Cistina had lost her own sisters years ago.

Despite her own weariness, Cistina acted as Denam's backbone and Denam, in return, seemed a bit more alive. When he stumbled, she caught him, when he was out of breath, she guarded his back protectively. Cistina wondered how she could have been blind enough to miss his weakness, but swore to herself to never do it again. If she could not protect one person, how could she protect her country?

They were approaching Rhime. Even from a distance it was easy to see the security tightened. Cistina could see small detachments of forces crawling the countryside and guards walking along the ramparts. No doubt there were archers inside just waiting to shoot at whatever moved. Cistina frowned, unintentionally mimicking the expression of the others beside her. This wasn't looking good. Her hand moved behind her back, finding comfort in her spear's presence.

Arycelle stood behind her, steady and confident. Their similar ages only made their differences more obvious. Arycelle was mature, down to earth, calm, and carried herself with a confidence that came only with personal understanding. Arycelle reminded Cistina very much of Cerya. In contrast, Cistina was childish and inexperienced, but balanced it out with devotion and optimism. Cistina doubted there was any man, or woman, who wanted peace more than her, except perhaps Denam himself.

Denam's quiet orders broke through Cistina's thoughts. Denam quickly assigned groups and Cistina waited until she heard her name.

"Cistina, you're to take the north gate. You'll have to circle around and go in alone; I can't send anyone with you, for this is an espionage assignment. Under no circumstances are you to alert the guards to your presence."

Cistina nodded confidently, but internally she was surprised, scared, but also eager to prove herself. Stealth was something Cistina could do. Negotiation and open attacks were Cistina's weak points, but stealth and support were Cistina's strengths and she was glad to have some recognition for her efforts. Cerya had always been overprotective and unwilling to give Cistina a chance to prove herself. In truth, it was partially Cistina's own fault, for always going against Cerya's orders.

Moving quickly as the rest of the group went in their own direction, Cistina stayed in the shadows, quietly, watching the guards. They moved with a stiff laziness, as if they were incredibly bored; Cistina couldn't blame them. Despite the men supposedly being on "high alert" they didn't seem to care who entered or left the city. After what seemed like an eternity of watching, Cistina finally decided that the best course of action would be to simply walk right in. This entrance seemed to be open.

Getting out of her hiding place, she walked through the gates, waving to the guards with a bright smile on her face. The guards nodded, acknowledging her presence, and Cistina let out a breath. She had gotten in! Before she could take more than a dozen steps, however, she heard screaming along the walls and Cistina wondered if she got caught. She looked around rapidly, but no one was approaching her. What was going on? Had Denam and the rest alerted the guard already? She saw the guards running about rapidly, but wasn't sure what was going on. She quickly hailed one of them.

"Sir! Sir! What's happening?"

The guard, out of breath from running, looked annoyed at being disturbed. He replied quickly before continuing on his way.

"Lady, it's not safe here. Apparently Duke Ronwey has been assassinated, and the High Champion Lanselot Tartaros of the Dark Knights Loslorien has been besieged! Be on your guard, the man who did it is on the loose. You'd best seek shelter immediately!"

Cistina was shocked. This wasn't how they'd planned things! Nearby she heard a pair talking, looking pointedly at Cistina. She couldn't make out everything they were saying but she could definitely hear "Bakram" and "disaster." Cistina fled to the shadows under a building. Now would be the worst time to be seen. Was it so obvious that she was Bakram? This wasn't the first time she had been caught on Walister land. She needed to figure out what was going on. This whole attack was a disaster from the start!

Staying in the shadows, Cistina made her way to the dedicated meeting point. On her way, she heard a loud gasping and immediately paused, back to the wall. She approached the sound, and noticed a dark haired man leaning painfully against a closed door. He seemed upset, and Cistina worried for his health. She watched as he quickly entered a nearby building. Cistina was conflicted. She couldn't just leave her post, but that man was obviously in pain. She had to go meet up with Denam, but this whole situation was completely out of control. There was very little point to her going to the meeting point now, Cistina concluded. She would meet Denam later, that man needed her help.

She followed him into the house, which she now saw to be abandoned, closing the door gently behind her. As she turned around, she found a knife to her throat, the dark haired man's hand shaking as he held it. The man's gaze swept over her and he gasped.

"You. I know you. You're that girl from the Liberation Front we had to save."

Cistina didn't reply, back pressed against hard against the door. How did she get herself into these situations? The man seemed to recognize her, but she didn't know him. He continued on, talking to himself more than her.

"So you're here with Denam, are you? Even now, he reaps the rewards of my hard work!"

Cistina finally replied, forcing the man's dagger into her flesh.

"You know me? You know Denam?"

The man removed his dagger and took a few steps back, lowering himself into a defensive position, weapons drawn. Cistina could tell the man was exhausted and terrified. Sweat was dripping down his face and blood smeared his clothes. His hair was disorderly and greasy.

With the man at a distance, Cistina sensed her chance and quickly drew her own weapon. The short "battle," it if could even be called that, was over in less than a minute ending with the exhausted boy disarmed on the floor at the point of Cistina's spear.

"Sloppy" Cistina murmured.

"You're annoying." The man bit out, trying to move out of range. Cistina would not have it.

"You're pathetic!" Cistina paused, finally getting a good look at the man's face now that he was under her. "Ah! I remember you. You were the boy with Denam when he saved me in Rhime! You didn't like that I was Bakram."

The expression on the man's face suddenly turned into one of disgust and Cistina wasn't quite sure what she had said wrong. "When 'he' saved you in Rhime? As I remember it, Catiua and I were there as well! As always, Denam steals what is rightfully mine." He snarled in return.

Cistina frowned. "What are you on about? Denam this! Denam that! 'Denam takes what's mine!' The way _I_ remember it, you wanted nothing to do with me, while Denam was respectful! You'd do best to take a lesson from his book."

"I'll not be told what to do by a girl!"

Quickly rolling out of Cistina's range, he clutched one of his daggers, once again trying to attack Cistina. His weariness was evident, though, and his motions were slow and clumsy. His anger overwhelmed any rational thought and the man was easily disarmed by Cistina, who once again knocked him to the ground. This time, she stood on his chest, weapon forced against his jaw, pressing his head back against the floor.

In truth, Cistina had no intention of harming him. She refused to cause any pointless death. She knew it would be better for her to leave the boy now, but her nature got the best of her. Despite his harshness, Cistina knew that something had to have provoked him into feeling something like this and she wanted to help him through whatever this predicament was.

Not removing her weapon, Cistina asked, gently but firmly, using a tone Cerya always used when she gave orders:

"Why do you hate Denam?"

The man made suddenly stopped struggling, glaring at her with an intense hatred. She felt a little surge of self-satisfaction until the man responded to her in a way she wasn't expecting.

"You're a hypocrite. All of the Liberation Front is!" Cistina froze, but recovered quickly enough that the male couldn't take advantage of her shock. This was the last subject she wanted to bring up. "You claim to want equality for Valeria, yet it is only you Bakram who would prosper! We Walister have worked hard to force the Galgastani into submission. You would take it all away from us with your ridiculous, idealistic battle to return to a world that never existed in the first place!"

Cistina stomped down hard on the dark-haired man's chest in a surprising fit of frustration, with a ferocity she didn't know she had in her. She wasn't a member of the Front anymore, but it still hurt to have such words spoken like that about her sister's dream. Cistina regretted her violent response a second later when the man coughed loudly.

"Is it so hypocritical to want peace for everyone?" Cistina whispered to him.

"You chase a dream." The man replied in-between coughs and Cistina met his eyes, her own sadness showing through.

"At least I have a dream; there is more to me than pointless hate. You never answered me! Why do you hate Denam?"

This time, he didn't hesitate. In fact, he spoke so loudly and passionately that Cistina was worried the guards might find them.

"Oh, I'll tell you! He's taken everything from me. He's always so perfect, always the one getting the attention. Always respected. Always loved by everyone he meets. He was always so skilled, well mannered, and well bred. His existence is my limiting factor! Once he's gone, I won't need to be in his shadow any longer!"

Cistina didn't know how to respond. _That _was why he was so spiteful? He sounded like a child who had his favorite toy stolen from him and was blaming his elder for it. For a moment, Cistina felt a soft flash of empathy. His words brought out memories of the spite she once held for her sister, Cerya, who was always so perfect, strong, and skilled. Cistina had never been able to hold a candle to her. But that was years ago; Cistina had grown out of her hate for her sister, instead replacing it with distant respect and loyalty to her elder, even if they weren't nearly as close as they had been as children. Cistina almost wanted to laugh his immaturity, but she knew it would be wrong to do so. Instead she tried replying gently.

"Hate only leads to more hate, Vyce." Yes, that was his name. Denam spoke often of him, with sadness in his eyes, but never loathing or hatred. "I'm sure Denam doesn't hate you."

"Empty words from a dumb bitch who doesn't know how the world works."

"Call me names all you like, but you're just as much of a child as I am. Your spite has caused you to be alienated by everyone who cared for you. Do you really enjoy the path you've chosen?"

"You think I do this for enjoyment? I'm not nearly that shallow."

Cistina nodded. "Forgive me, I did not mean to imply such." Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Vyce sneered at her and Cistina quickly backtracked. "And what of Catiua? Do you think she wants you to be like this?"

"Catiua is even blinder than you are. The only word that flows through her head is 'Denam'!" Was she hallucinating, or was that sadness in his eyes? Cistina pushed further.

"You don't believe that. I know you don't."

"Don't presume you know me."

Yes, this was working. She had to stay away from the subject of Denam. Vyce was being a bit more rational, breathing more lightly, and his eyes had less of that dark, cloudy look that had haunted them when she first entered the building.

"I know you better than you know yourself. For as much as you claim to love her, it is not Catiua you see. No, it is the idea of a loyal sister, no-a friend, that you want."

"Shut up! You don't know what you're talking about"

Cistina continued undeterred. She was getting somewhere now. "No, you don't love Catiua. You're in love with what Catiua means to Denam. You're in love with an idea!"

"Shut up! ShutupShutupShutup!"

He was breathing heavily against the point of her spear, chest rising and falling under her foot. Cistina felt horrible for making him feel such pain.

"No, I won't. For all your claims of Denam taking everything from you, you took them all away from yourself. You were beaten before you even started by your own blind hatred!"

Cistina took a deep breath. This was perhaps the most foolish thing she'd ever done, but it was also the only thing she knew how to do. She would show him the acceptance he desperately wanted and help him find his peace.

_I'm sorry, Denam, sister._

As she tossed her weapon to the side and stepped off his chest, Vyce rolled out of her range in an instant. Cistina caught up to him quickly, and jumped on top of him. She clutched at him, pinning him beneath her in a firm hug. He was filthy and smelled, but that didn't stop her, and she nuzzled into his neck, whispering quietly.

"It doesn't have to be an idea, Vyce. I will be your friend, your companion. I will support you, no matter the path you choose to take." As Vyce froze, she ran her fingers through his hair. "If you choose to kill me now, so be it. If you choose to run, I will not stop you. No, I will follow you. I won't let you be alone any longer."

His voice was quiet in reply.

"Empty words. Just like everyone else's."

Cistina shook her head, meeting his eyes.

"No, not empty. We will escape from here, you and I. Oh, Please. Don't give me that look. You're covered in blood, I can guess what you've done. As I said, I don't care. I just don't want you to hurt anymore."

"I can't just leave."

"No, perhaps not. But you can recover. Then you can come back and finish what you started, if that's what you choose. Even if you want to kill Denam, I swear I won't abandon you. I will draw my own weapon against him if I must."

"You're a liar."

Cistina got off of Vyce, and gently offered him her hand. He hesitated before cautiously taking it and collecting his daggers.

"Then let my actions speak for me. Come, we must escape. I won't let them have you."

Picking up her spear, Cistina carefully opened the door. In the distance, she could hear sounds of guards running about, but no one was nearby. She motioned towards Vyce, who silently followed, weapons drawn, eyes nervous and jumpy. Due to the chaos, finding their way out of the city without getting caught was rather easy. The guards had all left their posts. Foolish, Cistina knew, no wonder the city had fallen so easily to the Dark Knights! The found their way to a hill outside of Rhime, using it to stop and catch their breath.

Finally safe, Cistina let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding and turned to her companion, who was now staring at her. Vyce's eyes looked sad, weak even. Cistina smiled at him, but he didn't return it. Instead his gaze turned back over to Rhime and she noticed his clenched fists. Cistina grabbed his elbow gently; he did not resist.

"Where do you want to go, Vyce?"

He didn't turn, but a soft gust sang between them, causing Cistina's hair to gently float behind her. The wind sang with promises of a warm path for their new journey.

"Balmamusa. I want to go to Balmamusa."

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><p>If you enjoyed it, or found something horribly wrong with my characterization, please review.<p> 


	7. Eternity: SherriNybeth

For the third of my four-sister pieces, I give you something completely, horribly different. I was asked to do a crack pairing with "crazy" sex, since I'm such a prude when it comes to writing. Or something along those lines. As a result, this twisted idea came into being.

Be aware that this story contains all of the following:

Non-Con (Rape)

Necrophilia

Incest

FemSlash (Female/Female)

Gang-Banging

If you object to any of the above, turn back now.

This piece is a "What if," but not in as drastic direction as my DenamOz. This story occurs at the beginning of Chapter 4 **Neutral**. Sherri is not sent to the Hagia by Brantyn, so she never encounters Denam, instead she is the leader of the Bakram force leading the journey into the Palace of the Dead. Given that this is a "What if," expect things to play out differently than in canon. This story will be most easily understandable if you've finished the Palace.

While I wish I could say I spent some time developing Nybeth as a character in this piece, I decided against it. A Nybeth introspection story, exploring his goals, dreams, and desires would certainly be interesting, but this piece is Sherri's. It pains me to villainize Nybeth, as I'm of firm belief that, while definitely twisted and dark, he still holds some affection in him. Unfortunately, him being "evil" is necessary for this story to work.

_**Eternity**_

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><p>Sherri had never been so filthy in her entire life. It was cold, dark, damp, and the air was filled with some indefinable rancid stench. The power of the Temple was oppressive and she could easily admit this was not one of her better decisions. The Palace of the Dead was just as much of a nightmare as the legends spoke, with foul creatures running amok and the echoes of undead abominations howling in pleasure and agony. It was enough to make her wish that she had chosen to go to the Hagia to find her father and the Apocrypha.<p>

All of her detachment was dead. Most of them had been incompetent, dying within the first three levels, and Sherri wondered if Brantyn had sent them on purpose in order to get her killed. The very thought of Brantyn made her blood boil and she pressed on with newfound motivation. She would not do this for him, but for her people and, most of all, herself. She could hear the Temple's power; it called to her, and it sung with promises of untold power.

The enemies in the Palace were not difficult; Sherri had found channeling her power extremely easy in the depths of the planet, surrounded by the Wyrm Lords' power. The true threat were the specters. The specters would always appear just out of the corner of her eye in familiar visages, acting out some of her fondest memories. She saw her father, Cerya, Cistina, Olivya, her mother, and even people from her childhood, such as her first nanny and young Denam Morne, the boy whom Olivya would _just not shut up _about. They had surprised her at first, but Sherri quickly realized the goal of these creatures was to drive her mad. Had she not been so proficient in the magical arts, they might have succeeded at their quest.

The specters only served to sour her already dark mood as Sherri delved deeper into the depths of the horrid Temple. It was impossible to know how deep it went, but Sherri felt that she would not reach the bottom in any semblance of a timely manner. Her lack of ability to Exorcise enemies made the journey even more grating; Sherri would fell four ghosts, and one more would rise from the ones she just stilled. She was in the midst of grumbling to herself about her own stubborn idiocy when she came upon a large, empty chamber. The emptiness bothered her, for that meant something was likely to appear. Was it an army of specters? Demons? The risen flesh of her former detachment? Undead dragons? She stayed near the edge of the room and glanced around nervously until she heard a voice. It was raspy and Sherri knew it was directed towards her. She unintentionally took a step back, clutching her staff.

"Ah, look, my friends. We've a visitor. Why not show her in?"

Sherri immediately saw who "his friends" were, in the form of two bulky knights. As they approached, Sherri corrected her original conclusion: the two were no longer knights. Their skin was grey, falling off in places and their hair seemed to have fallen out in chunks, pieces of skull showing in what appeared to be random locations. The smell was absolutely horrible. One of the "men," if it could be called that, had a large gap in his armor from what looked like weapon wound and the other's armor was all but unrecognizable in its blood and dirt, but she could tell it was previously white. Sherri had heard rumors, but she had never thought she would actually see this. She was quite curious as she murmured under her breath:

"Necromancer."

She heard high pitched laughter from within, and the knights, strange creatures that they were, motioned for her to follow. They didn't seem hostile, but Sherri knew that the moment their master gave them orders, she would be at their mercy. The decision ate away at Sherri for a moment and she hesitated. Could she risk the wrath of Brantyn and leave now? _Could _she leave - would the Palace of the Dead allow her to leave? Her back was already open to previously-stilled hostile undead, so she had enemies on both sides. Was the Necromancer rational? What if she found an ally in her journey? Sherri somehow doubted that. She didn't realize she'd been standing in one place like a fool until one of the knights, the one with the large gap in his armor, pushed her forward. Sherri hissed and glared, but the knight's expression remained unchanged. It seemed her decision was made for her.

The room was filled with power, far moreso than the rest of the Temple she had encountered. It was almost overwhelming and Sherri found herself breathless at the thought of such power flowing at her fingertips. She could understand why the Necromancer remained here; it was addicting. The man came into view quickly and Sherri was surprised at what she saw. She hadn't had any expectations on what a Necromancer would look like, but at the same time his appearance was surprising. Some part of her that had been instilled with nursery tales told to her when she was young spoke of Necromancers being foul, dark creatures, just as dead as those they commanded, but this man was just that: a man. He was older, his robes worn and dirty, but Sherri could not see anything to make him stand out from any other man. Just as most legends, it appeared the stories of Necromancers were greatly exaggerated.

With over-exaggerated flourish, the Necromancer turned and bowed to Sherri, a smile on his features. The smile disturbed Sherri, but she held her ground, keeping her own expression flat and her body language cautious. The man seemed quite talkative, and Sherri was all too willing to let him do the talking if it would give her some idea on how to progress to the bottom of the Palace.

"Ah, what a surprise! It's a rarity for such a beauty to respect the power that comes with these dark depths. Yes, yes, I can feel the way it surrounds you. Just as I, you're capable of wielding the power in this Temple. Excellent!"

The meaning of his statement eluded Sherri; though his words referenced her, it was as if the Necromancer was in his own world. This man rambled on like a lunatic.

"Yes, you will do well. Girl!" Sherri felt a rush of annoyance at her 'title,' for she hadn't been a 'girl' for years. "Would you like an escort to the lower levels?"

Sherri felt a wave of dread. Nothing was this easy. _Nothing. _Power always came with a price, as did assistance. What did this man want from her? She was about to deny him, but the presence of the two undead knights at her back made her realize she had very little choice. His words were simply a formality and Sherri had fallen into his trap. Sherri nodded stiffly, accepting her mistake, knowing that the Necromancer would have his way no matter what she chose.

"Excellent! My lady, I am the Necromancer Nybeth, but you may simply call me Nybeth."

"Sherri." she clipped her reply. Such formalities were unnecessary; she wasn't here on her own will and they both knew it.

"A pleasure. Sherri, please remain beside me and allow our friends to do the fighting ahead of us." Sherri nodded.

The strategy was simple and effective and, Sherri had to admit, having the Necromancer as an ally sped her progress immensely. The Knights would take the force of the attacks, sometimes falling - only to be revived by Nybeth a moment later - giving Sherri enough time to cast her magic to still the undead. Soon after, the Necromancer would Banish them, and the group would continue on their way. Sherri felt as if some her previous burden lifted from her shoulders, despite the strategy's monotony.

After what felt like days of traveling, for Sherri had lost all sense of time, Nybeth started to speak with her.

"So the Bakram are trying to gain the power of the Gods." Sherri said nothing, for nothing needed to be said. The man continued. "They're fools. Hypocrites! They spout all of that pretentious nonsense about their God, yet end up crawling back to the older powers when it suits their purposes. No offense, dear Lady."

"None taken, Necromancer. I gave up believing in their God years ago."

The man cackled in reply. "Excellent, excellent. What a rarity: a true beauty, but with intelligence as well! You are a ray of light in my dark heart."

This man truly was insane. Sherri suppressed her shiver and kept her face calm, but her insides twisted uncomfortably and she felt ill. She would do well to kill the man now, before he turned on her. It was tempting, but she had to risk traveling with him, the reward was worth it. Sherri changed the topic of conversation, as she didn't want him anywhere near her.

"And what of you? What do you seek in these depths?"

The man seemed all too eager to elaborate, as he stopped entirely and started waving his arms in a ridiculous, dramatic manner. This man was more flamboyant than Brantyn Morne!

"Why, dear girl, I'm here for the same reason you are: To pursue my goals. I seek knowledge, power, and the gift of eternal life!"

"Fitting." Was Sherri's simple reply.

They were silent after that, but every so often the man would attempt conversation. Sherri didn't even bother replying most of the time, knowing he was just trying to play whatever sick, twisted game it was that he was playing. Eventually, the party, if it could be said to be such, reached another large, empty room. This room flowed with an even deeper power than the one before it and, as Sherri stepped inside it, she was almost forced to her knees.

"Amazing!" the man vocalized his opinion, and Sherri shared it. She had never felt anything like this place. This journey was full of firsts and, Sherri decided, no matter the outcome, she was happy to have come. Any true Mage would be in awe of the powers that flowed within this Temple.

The man approached Sherri from behind and she turned, wary. He held his hand out to her, on his palm a small, black ring. Sherri eyed the markings on the ring closely; from what she could tell, they were modeled to look like a skull and bones. She took it curiously.

"What's this?"

"A gift. It should work here. We're going to use the power of the Wyrm Lords on this level and this ring will act as a catalyst."

"'We?' I never said I wanted anything to do with this!" Sherri, furious, tried to throw the ring, but her hand was caught by the elder male before she could move. The man's voice changed from its jovial tone as his eyes darkened with cruelty. Sherri had been betrayed, just as she had expected. After all, everyone betrayed her; it was only a matter of time before he did as well.

"My dear Sherri, I didn't believe I was giving you a choice. You will use this ring, or I will put it on for you."

Sherri spat at him and tried to wrench out of his grip, but it was surprisingly strong, especially for one of his age. In her focus, she missed the two undead knights approaching, one of which knocked her to the ground.

Nybeth continued, his voice back to its soft, playful tone and his expression softer. "Such a shame, my dear. So intelligent, yet you can't see what's right in front of you! How long will it take to break you? No, no, that's not right. I don't want you broken. I want you for all eternity. But if I must break you to do it, so be it."

"What are you on about?" Sherri struggled against the unmoving arms of the undead knight holding her and watched, helplessly, as the man used his dark powers to summon. . .something? It took a moment before the creatures completely manifested, but Sherri recognized them as the specters that were haunting her on the upper levels. Sherri closed her eyes, knowing their game, and tried to draw her power to dismiss them. Unfortunately, Sherri was quickly Silenced by the Necromancer.

"Now, now, my dear. I can't have you fighting back just yet. This is going to be your last day in this form, and I certainly can't let such beauty go to waste. Do not worry, I'll just be watching. For now." He turned to the undead who were holding her: "Don't release her. Let the specters have their way with her, then you may do what you wish."

"Sister."

Sherri shivered. Being unable to dismiss the specters would push her over the edge of insanity, as Sherri knew she was already teetering dangerously on the edge without their influence.

The specters spoke in the voice of her elder, Cerya. They had been close, once, having grown up together and shared similar passions and dreams. She hadn't spoken to Cerya in years and the voice brought upon only cruel memories. Sherri kept her eyes closed, but felt gentle, warm fingers caressing her cheeks. 'Cerya' spoke again.

"It's all right, sister. You don't need to pretend anymore." Sherri shook her head trying to get the fingers off her face, but it didn't work. The fingers remained, gentle, soft, one even playing with her hair. One hand had moved down her neck and was caressing her back under her camisole. "I know you're scared. I know you're lonely. But that's okay, sister, I'll help you."

Sherri was shaking violently now, in a mix of fear and sadness. These creatures were able to penetrate her very soul, and call out to what she desired most: the family she had lost.

"Stop!" Sherri gasped, but one 'finger' hushed her, like her mother used to do as a child. The hand under her camisole had gently released her white corset, letting her cleavage drop, breasts now obstructed only by green cloth. Cerya's soft hand continued stroking Sherri's back and her other arm encircled her waist. Sherri tried to turn her head away, but Cerya's lips played at hers, eyelashes kissing Sherri's cheeks.

Sherri didn't know how to respond; she had never been in a position like this, let alone with the ghostly apparition of her elder sister. Cerya slid Sherri's green top off of one shoulder, completely exposing her breast. Sherri found herself blushing, despite the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Cerya, arms still around Sherri's waist, rocking against her pleasantly, leaned down and bit her nipple with sharp teeth, drawing blood. Sherri gasped at the pressure, trying to push her away. The situation had gone from bad, to worse; Cerya spread the blood around her nipple and breast with her tongue as Sherri squirmed. Her arms were still held back by the undead beast behind her.

"Remove her clothing. It's in the way." Sherri heard the voice of Necromancer Nybeth from a distance.

Sherri felt herself tossed around by the strong hands of the second knight as he tore off her camisole and corset. Her staff was tossed across the room towards the Necromancer leaving Sherri helpless. It was cold, yet humid this far down into the Temple, but Sherri found herself sweating, despite the freezing temperatures. Her bleeding nipple throbbed in pain, but Sherri was soon distracted as Cerya gently nibbled on her other nipple. Much to Sherri's horror, she felt warmth spreading on her lower abdomen, alongside the pulse of pain from her breast.

One of Cerya's hands moved gently down and stroked Sherri's thigh, causing Sherri to shiver and goosebumps to appear. Sharp nails trailed down Sherri's stomach, legs, and back as Cerya finally made her way down lower, to Sherri's feminine region. Playfully twisting her short dark hairs, Cerya spread Sherri's labia majora, giving her easier access to the more sensitive portions of her body. Sherri squirmed as Cerya rubbed her with a single finger, causing her heart to race. Tingles spread across her lower body and Sherri found herself breathless as the tip of Cerya's tongue finally, _finally, _played with her.

Sherri's hips unintentionally pushed forward, eager to meet Cerya. Her breath was rough now, often coming out in tiny gasps. Twice now, had she found herself having to close her mouth, for it had opened on its own as she leaned her head back, resting against the hard armor of the undead knight.

Then it was over. Sherri heard Nybeth chuckle as she caught her breath, her body still pounding in desire. She was unfulfilled; the specter of her sister had been dismissed before Sherri could reach her climax. The knight suddenly dropped her, and Sherri immediately ran over to the corner of the room, covering herself, curing in a ball. Her hand was clamped over her bleeding breast as her shaky, lusty breaths became steadier and more controlled. She had never felt such humiliation, even after first bowing to Brantyn.

She heard Nybeth's soft footsteps as well as the harder steps of the undead knights behind him. Still Silenced, Sherri looked up and glared, shaking in her frustration at her own weakness. She met Nybeth's eyes, making sure he knew exactly what she thought of him. He returned her glare with a soft smile.

"I'm sorry to have done this to you, dear Sherri, but until you're obedient I am going to have to continue humiliating you and forcing you into submission. Are you willing to put the ring on now?"

Out of stubborn instinct and refusal to submit, Sherri shook her head. This made the older male sigh.

"I thought so. All the better, for me. All the worse, for you." He paused, looking back to his Knights. "Strip yourselves." Turning back to Sherri, he spoke again with that bright tone that Sherri had originally found disconcerting "These two Knights are going to show you what a man is. The one with darker hair is Gildas. The paler one is Leonar. They are going to be your companions next."

Nybeth motioned to their naked, pale forms and Sherri's eyes widened. _Impossible! _They were dead! Their bodies had decayed, there was no reason for their blood to still be able to flow enough to cause such arousal!

Nybeth laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the depths. "Their bodies may fall apart, but they are still men. After their deaths, only the carnal instincts remain. Is lust not the most carnal of all?" He sighed, seemingly amusing himself. "Of course, I admit that much of this is my magic's doing. Under any normal circumstances this would be impossible. What they feel, I feel, so treat them well. I'm sure you wish to please your Master, do you not, Sherri dear?"

Had Sherri a knife, she'd have gone after the insane man right then, or possibly have even turned it on herself. Instead she was unarmed and did her best to huddle in the corner. As the men approached, she kicked and hissed, trying to keep them away. The men were mindless and persistent, and soon Leonar had a firm grasp on Sherri's leg. Leonar pulled her out of the corner and into the middle of the large room, back dragging painfully and rubbed raw from the harsh Temple floor. Gildas was able to subdue her arms and Sherri squirmed, hitting her head against the temple floor, causing her sight to temporarily flash white. She gasped loudly in pain, unable to cry out, and bit her tongue. Tears were in her eyes from her own stubborn fighting.

Leonar kneeled, spreading Sherri's legs as gently as an undead knight could. He learned over her, and Sherri got a look at his cold dark eyes. They were soulless and blank, unblinking and partially decayed. Sherri clenched her eyes shut, knowing that Leonar's eyes would haunt her for the rest of her life. She silently screamed has the male entered her, and clutched at his arms with her nails, trying to get him to pull back. Her nails did nothing to deter the dead man, only to serve getting large clumps of decaying flesh under them. She next tried pulling his hair, only to find it fall out onto her breasts as she grasped it, patches of skin still attached to the ends. Leonar didn't move, and instead took over holding Sherri's arms where Gildas had left them.

Sherri's body was being painfully rocked by Leonar's motions when she felt her mouth being forced open. She clamped her teeth down immediately and opened her eyes, seeing it was the brunette Knight, Gildas. The Knight held her nostrils, attempting to force her into breathing and opening her mouth. With her elevated heart rate from her unintentional-arousal, Sherri was unable to hold her breath as long as she intended, and the man forced her jaw open, pushing his aroused form into the wet orifice. Sherri noticed that his scrotum had decayed, one of his testicles falling out of its sac.

The rocking of from Leonar's pumps forced her mouth up and down on Gildas' penis and Sherri felt herself gag as it went down her throat. It was terrifying. Gildas and Leonar were cold, the only warmth came from Sherri herself. Sherri's own thoughts were abrupt and irrational as feelings and emotions flooded her body. She was warming from pleasure at Leonar's quick thrusts and across her lower regions spread a pleasant tingling feeling. The knights weren't gentle like the specter of Cerya, these creatures were harsh and blunt, seeking only their own orgasm and not even bothering to please Sherri.

The duo reached orgasm quickly, seemingly sharing their pleasure. There was no semen, for their internal organs had withered long ago. From the distance, she heard a soft moan from the Necromancer, letting Sherri know that he, too, could feel their pleasure. Leonar exited her quickly, gently releasing her arms at the same time. As Gildas removed his penis from her mouth, Sherri bit down, hard.

The move seemed to surprise the undead knight, and he fell backward, onto the ground. In shock, Sherri realized what she had done; she had bit the man's decaying organ off! Rolling over with her newfound freedom, Sherri pulled the penis from her mouth in shock and disgust, throwing it across the room. The horrible taste of decaying flesh filled her mouth and she spat, trying to get it out, but to no avail.

In her preoccupation with the remains of Gildas' flesh, Sherri missed Nybeth's approach. The man quickly encircled Sherri's waist with her arms, whispering in her ear. Sherri was so ill, so tired, and so broken that she didn't even resist. Tears were falling from her eyes, but she held herself high with what little pride she had left. She would not be seen as weak.

"You're such a dangerous thing! You've pleased me well today, my love. And, as promised, we will spend the rest of eternity together."

Nybeth slid the ring gently onto her finger, and with a small bit of his magical power, Sherri felt the world explode around her. It was if she was on fire. The power of the Temple was flowing throughout her body now, and Sherri knew she was going to die.

When the pain stopped, Sherri was long longer cold. It was a strange thought, based off an irrational feeling born from calmness coming out of panic. She looked around and coughed, finding the Silence spell to have worn off. She no longer tasted decaying flesh. His arms still around her waist, the Necromancer Nybeth was awakening, but Sherri didn't turn to him. She looked down on her naked form, in horror at what she saw. Her skin was pale, and it looked like the muscle was gone from her joints. But that couldn't be, for she could still move! Her breasts and thighs were smaller than they had been originally, but remained relatively intact and fleshy. It was an odd thing to note, but Sherri realized her nipple was no longer bleeding or throbbing. In contrast, her stomach, fingers, toes, and arms were unnaturally thin and felt like rough paper.

Once again the Necromancer held her, and Sherri found herself shaking. His hands were even more decayed than hers, and she felt his own newly roughened skin stroke the side of her face. She did not look at him, but she knew he must look even worse than she. He walked over to where Sherri's clothes had been torn off by the two knights, who had mysteriously disappeared, and carried them over to Sherri. She still did not look up, too scared to face the truth.

Nybeth gently dressed the shaking Sherri, who was quickly getting used to her new body. Her clothes were a bit loose now, but it occurred that for what she had lost, _Oh what she had gained! _The Temple's power flowed through her and Sherri no longer felt overwhelmed by the force that had initially incapacitated her on this floor. It was amazing and she had never felt so alive.

From beside her, Nybeth's raspy voice spoke soothingly, as if trying to make her feel better.

"There is no need for fear, Sherri, for I've succeeded in my quest. Now it is my turn to help you succeed at yours. Our journey is only just beginning."

* * *

><p>In case you're confused, both Sherri and Nybeth used Rings of the Dead to become Liches on 41F.<p>

Did you notice how the Female Lich portrait was a lot more "alive" looking than the Male Lich's or Nybeth's? She has some obvious cleavage and some normal tone to her skin, so I imagine that the Female Lich is closer to what the Death Knights look like than the Male Liches, who appear as corpses in the early stages of decay.

This piece was originally meant to be entitled "Sorrow," to keep in theme with Sherri's characterization in-game, but my plans were abruptly changed by my promise for a lemon.

I can actually see this pairing as very interesting when not treated in this manner. As characters, they've lot in common, and I think the pairing might be interesting to work with again in the future.

CeryaOz is next.


	8. Fire: CeryaOz

The last of my four-sisters pieces (for now) revolves around the eldest, Cerya, with Oz. It takes place in 3L, and I am aware that it might be disturbingly close to canon for some readers. Denam never comes to save Cerya, he's busy elsewhere. For a "cute, romantic" approach, I've gone with Stockholm and Lima. It's not meant to be an accurate depiction of the syndromes, but more for fun, especially after a dark, dreary introductory sequence.

If the thought of torture disturbs you, but still want to read cute-CeryaOz, you should go to the first line break within the story. Extended torture occurs during the first scene.

Please note that while I depict violent and cruel acts I am not in _any way_ condoning them or encouraging them. Oz is a cruel character in canon, often speaking of violent ways to torture characters. I've simply kept him in-character.

I ask that you pay attention to details, given that this piece is in first person. Oz is all fire. Fire is warm, a giver of life, but painful and harsh and can take life just as easily. He's gentle and "romantic," but violent and cruel. It's the small things Oz does that are very important, rather than the large ones.

Time skips in this piece are depicted by line breaks. They are usually a matter of days or weeks.

_**Fire**_

* * *

><p>She reminds me of my sister.<p>

That is my first opinion of her. She's not nearly as beautiful, of course, but very few are. The fiery brunette lies broken on the ground before my Templars, dress cut up the side, exposing her thigh, stomach, and the underside of her breast. From what I can tell at a glance, and I pride myself at being able to tell these things instantly, many of her ribs are broken, as is her ankle, and her left arm is completely worthless. If she does not reach a healer soon, the arm will never hold a weapon again. That would be a shame, I decide quickly, for what's the point if she does not fight back? The main difference between Ozma and the fallen woman is in temperament: where my sister is as cold as the ice she wields, this woman is as hot and passionate as her own fire, an element I share.

Despite obviously being in agony, the fire in her eyes does not diminish. She is beautiful; I would take her. Before I can say anything, sister moves in front of me; she knows me far too well.

"Not now, Oz. We've work to do."

"Meh." I reply, annoyed. Ozma questions the broken girl as she moves back to my left:

"We seek Abuna Prancet Pavel. We know you have him, and you are going to give him to us."

"Why bother negotiating, sister? It's obvious they're not going to give us what we seek without a fight." Her methods are often beyond me; I swear Ozma does this simply to be an annoyance.

The broken girl at my feet coughs and clutches at her chest in pain. She says nothing as she grasps her sword with her working arm, trying feebly to stand up. She is determined, and refuses to break. All the better. I kick her and she falls to the ground again with a cry of pain, sprawled on the floor, with her undergarments exposed. I glare at a few of my Templars, who are eyeing her lecherously, letting them know exactly who the woman in red belongs to.

My prisoner forces herself back up again. Her eyes are full of hatred as she meets mine for a moment, before looking over to Ozma, who gently puts her hand on my own, stopping me. The woman refuses to look at me any longer. Do all sisters try to ruin their brother's fun, or is it only my own?

"Do what you will to me, but you'll learn nothing!"

I am about to reply that yes, my dear, I am going to enjoy doing a great many things to you, but Ozma speaks first, cutting me off.

"This is your last warning. My brother here, as you can see, is quite frustrated. I will leave him with you and I can _guarantee _you will be speaking afterwards. Or, you can tell me now and I will not have to slaughter everyone in this fort to get the information I desire."

"Never!"

What is it with these ridiculous Islanders their refusal to listen to rationality? Or perhaps she was intelligent enough to realize we had no intention of sparing the Liberation Front, no matter her actions or words. I admit, I'm a bit doubtful about the latter; for none of these Valerians show any semblance of foresight.

Ozma nods to me and then turns to her Templars, motioning them to go outside. I follow suit, motioning to my own force, a word telling them to follow my sister. I don't hear what Ozma says to her own forces, for my mind is already on the angry woman on the floor.

She's doing her best to avoid looking at me. All the prisoners are like that; it's as if they believe that avoiding my eyes will somehow make them able to withstand the pain. That she refuses to meet my eyes saddens me. Her eyes are so beautiful, so full of passion, of hatred, or pain, and of emotion that I find myself unable to look away; they make me want to stroke her face as I remove her fingers, so that I can savor every second of her chaotic emotions.

Perhaps Ozma would allow me to keep her?

No, no, she complains that I've too many pets already. How annoying.

But since when do I listen to sister, anyway?

If she survives, I decide, I will bring her with me. Ozma disagrees with everything I do, what's one more thing for her to scold me about?

But what of the High Commander? I hesitate, frowning. It's true, he gave no orders to take prisoners, and we're to kill them all. But surely he would not object to a pet? Especially if I clear her memories once we've our information. He would certainly have no complaints then.

I caress the hilt of my favorite dagger fondly as I remove it from its sheath. The blade sings the song of countless lives and has been a constant companion of mine for years. My gloves come off next and I toss them to the floor beside me. There is nothing quite like feeling the tearing of flesh under your own fingers and I've no intention of letting my armor impede that. But where to begin? The woman is badly wounded from battle already and still retains her fire. I certainly don't want to push her over the edge too quickly, so I know I must be gentle. A few screams here and there, perhaps, possibly extremity removal if I absolutely must. To scar her badly would only be an insult to my arts and I would have nothing to bring back to Lodis with me.

Rolling my dagger through my fingers, I take a step forward kneeling by her, quickly subduing her and pushing her face to the floor. She tries to kick me off, but I do not budge. Still, it is an annoyance, and I run my dagger down the back of her calves to her ankles, slicing through muscle and tendon. That is much better. Forcing her arm back, taking her hand on my own. I let the dagger's blade run playfully over her palm, and offhandedly stroke the blood with my finger, making small designs. It's not meant to cause anything but minor discomfort, but it's a good way to get my blood flowing. She cries at me through her pain:

"Beast! I'll kill myself before telling you anything."

I find myself sighing. How cliche. How many times have I heard that before? I quickly run through an internal list of previous prisoners trying to find one who _hasn't _said that. No, no, I do believe every single one said something similar, only to be begging for me to stop just a short time later. I snap back at her in return:

"How? Biting your own tongue off? Yes, I can see you trying that. But I won't let you die, no, that certainly wouldn't do. Perhaps I'll break your jaw instead. Or shave down your teeth so that you've nothing left to bite with. Which would you prefer?"

I flip her over again, pressing my weight against her broken ribs. She releases a harsh moan of pain, a soft melody that pleases my ears in her high voice. She doesn't answer me; her head is turned to the side, face holding a familiar look of disgust. The first step to breaking one's prisoner is not physical pain, but mental and emotional.

"No preference? Very well. I'll do things my own way, then."

I rustle through my armor and take out my favorite bag, which I always wear with me. It has my many toys for torture-on-the-go, when I lack any more elaborate structures, buildings, or tools. Of interest in my pouch, I've a large metal file, a few pins, a tiny sharp blade used for smaller, more intricate incisions, my ichors, some poisons, and a small tie that I used to cut off circulation so I may remove body parts at will. I gently pick out one of the larger needles, rolling it around in my fingers before my face, letting the woman below me see what I've planned. The large one is just for show, and I pull out two of the smaller ones, for they will assist me in my work. Multiple larger needles will likely kill or permanently maim her, something I do not wish to do just yet.

Her eyes widen and she quivers, clamping her jaw shut at the sight of the large needle. Her panic is evident. Such a foolish girl; her response is exactly what I am hoping for. Her strategy is well used and common, but my counter works just as well. I bring my face close to hers, kissing away her tears and she shivers. Her eyes darkened with hatred at our nearness and I find myself breathless at the expression. She's perfect. Her shiver turns into a shriek as I slice my dagger through the cartilage down her ear, removing it in a single cut. Blood pours down her face and neck onto the floor.

Forcing my hand into her open, gasping mouth, I grasp her tongue and fold it. She tries to bite down, but is gasping and choking too violently to effectively ward me off. With my two smaller needles I pin her tongue together, tying them at the ends so that they won't budge at the tongue's motion. With the larger one, I stab the lower portion of the tongue into her soft palate, forcing the needle into her nasal cavity, effectively pinning her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Removing my hand from her mouth quickly, I wipe the saliva off on her clothing and watch as she struggles to breathe. The puncture will not stop her from breathing, but it prevents any suicide attempts. I see her struggling against my needles, but to no avail. She can't move her tongue well enough to remove them.

"The more you struggle, the more you're going to hurt yourself. Now, where were we?"

The gagging continues and I gently take her hand in mine, the same one I bloodied earlier, though it has clotted and was only seeping at a slow drip. I stroke the top gently She uses a blade often, I can tell, for her hand is calloused and worn, her nails short and dirty. Not even Ozma can keep her nails long when afield. She coughs and gasps as I break each finger on her delicate hand, each soft "pop" making me shiver in delight. She flops around on the ground in response, still trying to throw me off. Her legs aren't working and her chest and arms are pinned, but she fights back even now. I'm quite impressed; for a woman, she's very resilient. She's the first Valerian I've encountered who refuses to break. Her entire body is maimed in some way, and yet her weak struggles persist. I feel my arousal building uncomfortably against my pants, armor pressing into it, but ignore it. Maybe later, she is far too unclean to touch yet. She might even some disgusting disease. Who knows with these peasants?

Cutting off a large part of the woman's red dress from her lower regions, I very gently place it over her left ear where I just cut her and apply pressure. I certainly can't have her passing out from loss of blood now can I? That is a beginner's mistake. As she is incapable of talking back, I decide to speak to her.

"I've a friend who is not nearly as kind as I. He's a bit off in the head, you see, and collects the nipple from every prisoner he takes as a trophy. 'Tis disgusting, I say. Why mutilate such fine forms? I'd much rather take the whole body with me." I smile gently, brushing the woman's hair off her face. Her eyes are sad, scared, and angry now, but I can tell she's weakening. Even the strongest will eventually break, and I look forward to the moment that this one is on her knees begging to answer my questions. "You needn't worry; long after you're dead you will remain beautiful."

The woman squirms some more and I can tell my words have an effect on her. That she's not crying yet angers me, and it is something I decide to immediately remedy. Opening up my small pouch again I take out a large nail. These nails are special, and have large barbed ends meant for penetrating, much like some arrows. They are not meant to be removed once inserted. I always like to bring nails with me, for while primitive and simple, they work beautifully. I gently place the woman's non-cut hand onto her own leg and clutch the hilt of my dagger. She tries to pull away with what strength she has, causing me to smile. I place end the nail in the palm of her hand and start pounding at it with the hilt of my dagger. It's a long process, but even better for me. Each time my dagger descends I hear pleasant gasps coming from her, the sounds twisted due to her tongue not being fully functional. I stop every once in a while, to twist the nail around, letting the barbs do their work and promoting blood flow.

The woman finally gives in with a harsh scream. I see her gagging, and immediately get off her chest, turning her over in an instant. She's vomiting from the pain, her stomach's contents emptied onto the floor and her dress. I imagine some of the fluid remains behind her tongue as well, but that's fine; I've every intention of letting her stomach acid burn away at the holes in her tongue where the needles are. I'm more worried that she will choke on the contents of her own stomach. I pound at her back with force, making sure none of the liquid gets into her lungs.

"Stop!" Annoyed, I drop the woman and turn to the direction of the voice. He continues. "I'm the one you're looking for. I'm Prancet Pavel. Don't hurt Cerya anymore, just take me and leave her be." I almost laugh at his face. I'm more interested in the woman, who I now know to be Cerya, than him.

But, ah, orders are orders. My desires do tend to run away with me, don't they? I realize I haven't even asked the woman any of the questions, as was the entire point of this session. Not that it matters anymore, as the Abuna is right in front of me. Picking up my tiny sack, I place it back in my armor gently, and sheathe my dagger after cleaning it on the woman's red dress. I get up, letting Cerya writhe on the floor. She won't be going anywhere. I call out the door to the guard I _know _Ozma left.

"Bring Ozma, I've a present for her."

Prancet Pavel is a strange one. How long was he watching me for, I wonder? He is a coward to let the woman take the pain to spare him his own, yet here he is, calm, stoic, and is willing to meet my eyes. Perhaps I will get to break this one, too? He holds out his arms to me in submission and I take him, bringing him over the door. As we wait for Ozma to return, I carefully examine Cerya. She seems to have passed out. I frown. A shame, that. Damn this man for distracting me.

Ozma returns looking absolutely radiant. Her armor and face are covered in blood and her hair is disorderly, matted the blood of her fallen enemies. She's in a good mood, I can tell. I swear sometimes Ozma just needs to relieve her stress, she keeps it all pent up inside more than is healthy. I often offer her play with the prisoners, but she always declines, even when we both know it will be better for her if she comes.

"Who is this, Oz?" She is slightly breathless as she whispers my name. A brief flash of lust courses through me and I imagine her breathing my name while underneath me, bloody and begging for me to stop. Or to continue. Perhaps both. I reply casually, leaning down to pick up my forgotten gloves and I notice Cerya has regained consciousness, her eyes dark with pain.

"This is Abuna Prancet. It seems I didn't need to get our lady to speak after all." The man is silent, and I smile. I seem to have that effect on people.

Ozma looks down at the girl in distaste, and then back up at me.

"Did you even attempt to question her? It looks to me as if you simply had your way with her." I frown at Ozma's choice of words. She knows that I would not do such a thing here. I take back that comment about her needing to have fun more often, as I always forget she gets particularly sadistic after a murder-filled day. Or perhaps it's simply that our souls are connected as one and she can feel what I feel; what I feel is lust and desire to cause the woman pain.

As if echoing my thoughts, Ozma takes out her whip. It's a beautiful thing, one she's made herself. It fits her well, all bloody rose thorns with an enchantment of Ice. I know better than to get in her way when she's like this. Unfortunately, one of the younger Templars trying to subdue the Abuna doesn't; he's forced to the ground as Ozma's strike hits his arm, warning him to move with a glare. Ozma strikes at Cerya's flesh, the whip leaving a long, painful line of red skin and blood. In response, Cerya makes one of her gagged screams, the sound muffled by her tongue's incapacitation. Ozma strikes again, seemingly angry at the lack of reaction. I've often thought of learning to use a whip. It causes such delicious pain for such minimal effort, but it just isn't direct enough. I can produce the same results by cutting off strips of flesh with my dagger. Even better, those flesh strips have other uses, such as feeding them to my prisoner.

While I'm quite happy that my sister seems willing to assist me at breaking the other woman, I gently place my hand onto Ozma's arm, calming her as she calmed me earlier. One of us has to remain rational, and I certainly can't say I'm the better of the us at it. Ozma takes a few deep breaths and puts her whip away before turning to the Templars.

"Take the Abuna away." Ozma turns to me. "Are you done with your pet, brother? Do away with her and let us return to Phidoch."

I look down to the wounded Cerya and up to my sister. I know she's right, I should leave her here. But I don't want to. This whole island has been one disaster after another and I've so very few trophies to show for it. I don't move and respond to Ozma stubbornly.

"Don't interfere, sister. I'm just getting to the good part."

Ozma turns toward the door. "Oh? I don't recall any orders telling us to take prisoners, Oz."

"I'm certain the High Commander won't object. This one belongs to me."

"Then it's your head, not mine."

* * *

><p>The High Commander isn't pleased. I offhandedly listen to his scolding for a half-hour and feel my mood deflate. I'm one who follows orders loyally, something Tartaros and I both know, but this was less an act of rationality and more an act of selfishness without foresight.<p>

Despite his ramblings, the High Commander declares that I may keep Cerya, as long as I take care of her. I exit the room and approach one of my Templars, asking where my new pet is, for my mood is dark and I wish to improve it. She remains in the dungeons, and Phidoch's healers are looking after her, or so I'm told. I frown. Who gave them those orders? I want her broken, not pampered! The Templar doesn't know and I decide it to be Ozma. Always the jealous woman, Ozma has no intention of sharing me. Not that I object to her possessiveness, but I am annoyed at her hypocrisy. I must share her with Balxephon!

The dungeons below Phidoch are worn and comfortable. I can tell countless prisoners have been here through the years and the walls are stained with their cries. Finding Cerya is easy, for the healers are surrounding her. I approach her chamber and call them over, asking what is going on. They're all skittish, their words annoying and stilted. They're telling me exactly what I already know: She's been badly wounded from what appears to be battle, and then it appears as if she was tortured.

I find myself apathetic to their description, looking about the room. They have taken my nail out of her hand and it sits on a small table, but where were my needles? I ask them where my needles are and they hesitate to respond, suddenly realizing the implication of what I am saying. Apparently, they did away with my needles as they were patching her tongue and throat. I unintentionally make a low hiss. The needles are one of my favorite tools, they've no right to discard them! Taking that as their cue to leave, I approach the girl on the bed. She's bandaged now, with most of her body covered from my violent incisions and punctures.

I want to continue my games where I left off, but I hesitate. This one's very strong. She hadn't been broken before, back at Boed, but if I continue now, she would be easy to break. Would I not get more out of her if I wait for her to recover completely? Perhaps I could get weeks, no, scales of pleasure from her! Suddenly, staying on these islands doesn't sound like such a horrible idea. They may be dirty and filled with uncultured rabble, but I've a personal plaything to keep me entertained.

My mood lightens as I exit the room and let the healers have their way with her. I give the healers strict orders to leave whenever Cerya appears to be awakening; she is to see me and only me.

I visit her when I am not afield. It takes a week for her to awaken the first time, and when she does she screams, a long, pleasant sound that shakes me to my core with desire. I fear she will commit suicide, but as I stroke her hand softly, she looks at me with frightened eyes and falls back to sleep, trembling.

She's a lot of permanent damage, the healers say. Well, of course, what were they expecting? Me to be gentle? Certainly not, the very thought is laughable.

She's been acting differently recently. She doesn't scream when she sees me. Instead her eyes are filled with warmth. It's unnerving to see anyone look at me like that. I want to remove her eyes right then, but she smiles at me and I hesitate. I've seen blood, I've seen death, and I cause more than my share of both with great pleasure, but I've never been so unnerved as I am when she gives me that pure, warm smile. I leave the room in a rush, unable to face her.

* * *

><p>Ozma's been acting strangely lately, ever since she's returned from Rhime. I ask her constantly about it, but she is tight-lipped and refuses to speak a word to anyone. I watch as she stands near the window, staring at the sky. She clutches at her armor, even though it appears that nothing is there. I know otherwise; she's holding a necklace, a gift from Hobyrim. I clench my jaw at the memory. I thought Ozma was over that man already; after all she did for him, he threw it back in her face. If I ever see him again, I will castrate him, sister's "true love" or not.<p>

Ozma can sense my anger and turns to me. She has a playful expression on her face, despite her weary sadness. A feeling of dread wells within me in response. This certainly cannot be good. I brace myself, knowing that Ozma is going to go on one of her tangents.

"Someday, brother, you'll understand."

She pats my arm as she walks past and I find myself more confused than ever.

As Ozma's footsteps echo in the distance, I look out the window she previously stood at. The sky is clear and it reminds me of the look in Cerya's eyes whenever she sees me, bright and pleasant. I turn away instantly, unsure of what brought the thought on, or why I'm thinking such nonsense at all. Perhaps I'm simply bothered because my quarry is not breaking under my fingertips right now.

Stalking down to the dungeons, I enter Cerya's room, intent on crushing her. She's sitting quietly in the corner, gently twirling her hair with her working hand. She doesn't move until I come towards her, then she looks up, _that_ smile on her face. She glances at me and then looks to the floor, a blush rising in her cheeks. Her hands are held, or held as closely as they could be considering their bandages and broken bones, and she speaks.

"Hello, Master. I've been waiting for you to return."

It's the first time she speaks since her relocation to Phidoch. Though she has been conscious for some time, Cerya hasn't spoken, possibly due to damage to her throat and tongue, or more likely because she has been unwilling to. I stop moving completely as the girl lets out a small giggle. Flicking my dagger into my hand, I watch her cautiously. She's gone mad, I decide quickly, and curse my lack of armor. Cerya remains idle on the bed, instead eyeing my dagger wearily, the air between us thick with tension. I worry she might attack me, but at the same time I hope she does so I may begin to break her anew. She starts shaking, and suddenly I'm far more comfortable with the situation. I chuckle as I approach her and she tries to ward me off with her small, broken hands. This is something I can enjoy, not the passive girl previously in front of me.

As I approach, I look into her eyes and pause; no longer do her eyes hold fire. Instead they're simply warm and gentle, a smolder compared to the blaze they once held. I find myself surprisingly saddened. What a waste of such beauty, to have such a flame lost before I had a chance to snuff it out myself. I feel my motivation drain; it is no fun to break an already broken creature. I do not lower my guard, for who knows what the insane woman is capable of, but I take a few steps back. Cerya's smile returns immediately as I distance myself and her shaking stops.

Her legs are possibly permanently damaged and she will not walk for Scales. Cerya's arm, though set by the healers, remains broken and both hands are bandaged from my torture to them. As long as I stay out of her range, she cannot harm me. I put my dagger away, calming myself. She looks to the ground again, the smile returning to her features. _That_ smile is terrifying.

"Stop that." I order her.

She looks confused, and then looks away from me, misinterpreting my meaning. Cerya replies, her once-powerful voice soft and submissive.

"I don't understand."

There's no longer any trace of her that reminds me of my sister. No, that's a lie. Her tone, her eyes, her smile, her expression, _everything_ reminds me of Ozma; but in Cerya I see a different Ozma. The Ozma before Loslorien. Cerya's eyes speak of love, of passion, and of an intense trust that I've no idea how I earned. She looks at me as Ozma looked at Hobyrim years ago.

"Stop smiling at me."

It's my turn to look away from Cerya. I can feel her gaze on me still, but I don't care if she listens, for I'm already lost in my thoughts. How long have I wished for Ozma to look at me as she looked at Hobyrim? To rely on me instead of always relying on herself and to not always speak to me that same annoyed tone? I'm angry at myself, for I thought I grew out of such feelings years ago. I'm no longer a child who must hide behind my sister, or my family name, for feelings of adequacy. Another lie, I know before it even crosses my mind. If Ozma asks something of me, I will do it.

To be needed by someone is a feeling I know all too well. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding as I turn away, refusing to look at the girl, and walk from the room.

I suddenly feel very unclean. I walk back to my room and call for the servants to fill my bath. The servants fill my basin and I order them to leave as I remove my own clothing and step in. The water is painfully hot, but it distracts me from my thoughts. I lazily wash myself, scrubbing hard at whatever imaginary grime is on me. I need something, anything, to distract me. I run my hand down my body, gently stroking myself. I've not had pleasure in far too long, and Cer- I force myself to not think of _that _particular disaster- instead focusing on memories of the screams and fear caused to a particular girl back in Lodis. The look in her eyes. . .yes, the terror, the fear, there is nothing that pleases me more. It was my first, and last, act of barbaric butchery, but nothing arouses me so quickly, even years later. The way her blood pours from her mouth as she falls over my blade. That's what the bitch deserves for speaking such to sister! She tries to scream, but it comes out as nothing but a gurgle and violent tremors wrack her body as she drowns on her own blood. I remember what her skin feels like as I slice my blade down her chest, removing her breasts - which she is so fond of showing off. I moan softly, leaning back, as I reach climax, but as I orgasm, Cerya's beautiful face flashes in front of my eyes and I gasp, in both pleasure and horror.

Out of breath from relieving myself, I quickly get out of the bath and don a robe. I'm gasping heavily; the woman stalks me, even in my fantasies. Perhaps it is not she who is mad, but I.

* * *

><p>She refuses to leave my mind.<p>

It's become an obsession. No matter what I think, be it fantasies about Cerya's screams, or memories of breaking her bones inside Boed, it all comes back to the soft smile that awaits me when I visit the dungeons. The only time I'm able to think clearly is when I visit her. I sit down in the chair and she stares at me, asking me how my day has been, and how I'm feeling.

Other than Ozma, she's the only person who asks of my well-being. To Loslorien, to my country, to my family, I am a tool. I've accepted this for years and it is an integral part of who I am. I revel in my duty, for it gives my life the very purpose it lacked in my youth. I will serve to my last breath with no questions asked. But this woman tears my foundations apart. Cerya worries for me and says she hopes that I will feel better soon, that she would be pained if anything happens to me. I think of ringing her neck and telling her that, as long as she exists, I will feel no satisfaction, that she drives me mad, and that I cannot stand her smile and I would cut off her lips so that she can never do it again. . .but for some reason I cannot bring my body to speak the words that my mind cries.

Cerya seems to understand my sadness and fear. Though she cannot move out of her bed, she is extremely perceptive. Perhaps it's whatever remains of her warrior personality. No, I cautiously admit, there's more than 'remains' of her personality left. Cerya is stubborn, willful, and determined. She will not stop until she has my full attention.

It's then that I realize that my initial assumption, back when I first beat her at Boed fortress, was completely wrong.

It is not Ozma that Cerya reminds me of, no. It is myself. That's why I cannot turn away from her and that is why she drives me mad. I see who I used to be, and who I pretend I am not. I see the loyalty and devotion to my family, I see the fear of being alone. I see a stubborn will and refusal to submit. I see my own horror at the thoughts and memories of pain incapacitating my body. I see the absolute unconditional love for my sister and her unconditional love for me. Cerya parallels me in many ways and it's terrifying.

* * *

><p>There are times the fire returns to her eyes. She speaks passionately about me, and scolds me if I'm being stubborn. I do not feel the urge to douse the fire any longer; instead I want to make it burn brighter. I imagine those eyes looking up at me as we sit in bed together, naked and sweating from our coupling, and I caress her cheek as she leans her head on my chest. I am surprised; it is not only pain that arouses me, but the mental image of the brunette at my side. If I stretch my fantasies a bit, I imagine her dressed as a Lodissian woman, willing to take pleasure in my own games, giving me delicate tips. She tells me what she thinks is best to cause our victim pain, and then she licks the blood and strips the flesh, gently passing it into my mouth in a long, passionate kiss.<p>

I visit her every day now. We've come to an understanding of each other, and she's brightening, becoming more passionate. Cerya speaks more; I am surprised to learn that her memory is not impacted at all, it's just that she simply does not care for the past, looking only to the future. She tells me that she is the eldest of four sisters, only a year younger than myself, and speaks openly with passion of what she wants Valeria to return to. I'm quiet at her stories, for most of them are ridiculous, but I watch her. Cerya livens when she speaks of her country, and I take pleasure in her expressive features. It pleases me that she has such love for her country, and part of me hopes she will someday feel the same about Lodis, when these islands are ours.

A knock at the door interrupts us and I hiss in anger before turning away from Cerya. It's one of my Templars, a young woman who will be very skilled with her sword in the future. She murmurs respectfully, keeping her distance:

"Sir Oz, the Resistance marches from Almorica! The Bakram are holding at the gates."

Damn! So this is it, then. We don't have the manpower to hold Phidoch against the whole of the Resistance. I look at Cerya and back at the young Templar. I get up from the table and walk over to Cerya, leaning down over her broken form. I gently kiss her forehead, a delicate, precise motion, but one that is filled with all of the emotions bottled within me.

As I turn away, she grasps at me with her broken hand and I can hear a soft gasp of pain from her exertion. That fire is back, the one that attracted me to her initially. She holds me with what little strength she has and looks up at me with fierce eyes that take my breath away, just as they did when we first met.

"Promise me, Oz." It's the first time she's said my name. She usually calls me 'Master.' I like the way it sounds on her tongue. "Promise me that you won't do anything foolish. That you'll run if you must."

I hesitate. I've no intention of running. But her frail hand clutches mine and her watery eyes make me turn my head down in shame. I will fight, I will uphold the honor of Loslorien, of Lodis, and of House Glacius, but I will not allow myself to be killed. I've something to live for now, a future that I will fight to protect.

Yes, sister, I understand now. You were right all along.

I smile, perhaps my first true smile in years, as I motion for the Templar to take care of Cerya.

"I promise."

* * *

><p>Concluding Notes from an obsessive Oz fan with far too much time on her hands:<p>

Oz actually has a lot of small personality nuances that you don't notice just running through the game. You have to play all three paths and CODA to actually put them all together. Because I realize that his actions may seem strange to any non-fan, I feel the need to elaborate on them.

First and most important to his character, Oz is submissive to his sister. See Neutral, as well as the Chaos death dialogue, where he's constantly seeking his sister's approval, even in his dying breaths. Kill them with the same attack for even more evidence of this.

I imagine has some issues with self-confidence and is constantly looking for ways to affirm himself. He is a swordsman in a family full of mages. His sister is the dominant twin, and I imagine she received much of the praise as children.

He strives for attention. He verbally attacks Denam, Balxephon (3L), Canopus, Cerya, Hobyrim, among others, to provoke response more than actually caring about what they say, as shown in both the normal game and CODA.

Notice I mention eyes a lot? That's something Oz himself does, and the repetition is intentional. To at least two, possibly three, separate females in the game he tells them he loves how their eyes look. It seems to be the first thing he looks at in women.


	9. Sacrifice: CatiuaAzelstan

This one is short and sweet. It's not a pairing fiction, but one of personal growth and development. It takes place in Chapter 4, Chaos route, with the Princess alive. That's all you really need to know.

_**Sacrifice**_

* * *

><p>It was a strange feeling, Catiua decided, to be in the middle of an army. Even in the darkest night the army was active, fires burning, men laughing, soft voices echoing in the distance. It was nice, for it allowed Catiua to fade into the background. She had no place here, she knew, and no matter what she said otherwise, Catiua knew was only here because she wanted to prove something to herself. Her lack of belonging had become obvious when she had tried to take command during an emergency. Her orders had backfired horribly.<p>

Denam had been busy that night, off in the city gathering information. He had gone to meet with his whisperers without a word to Catiua and instead left Cerya as his Second. The experienced woman had accepted the task dutifully, and Denam often relied on her expertise and knowledge of both the troops and the lay of the land.

It was late in the night, with much of the army asleep, when the Bakram had attacked. The army was in disarray and the command had been pure chaos. Even worse, none knew of the Bakram's numbers. Cerya had been calm and collected, giving orders the small amount of troops not sleeping and Catiua had been horrified. She had entered the conversation, telling Cerya that there were not nearly enough troops to deal with the threat. Catiua had easily overridden Cerya's orders with her own. It had been a disaster to do such, for with so many troops fighting in the darkness, no one knew where the enemy ended and where friend began. More casualties had been caused by friend attacking friend than any Bakram attack.

It had been a humbling moment for Catiua; she had overwritten Cerya's orders only to have them cause more pain and death. Not only had her actions alienated Cerya, but upset Denam and lowered troop morale. It was then that Catiua realized just how much time she spent pretending she was someone she was not, and that she really had no place in the army other than as a figurehead. For all that she spoke of fighting on the front line, she was no better than a common soldier and had no idea when to give proper orders. She could play at being a ruler all she'd like, but when it came down to harder decisions, Catiua felt herself cracking and once again relying on Denam. She hated herself for it.

It also gave her a new respect for Denam. Denam always seemed to know exactly what to say to his troops; Catiua cautiously admitted the fact that they were _his _troops despite them marching under her name. Denam had a calm air of confidence that, unlike her own, was not an uncomfortable act. Despite his often aloof confidence, he was truly warm and friendly, and Catiua knew that he was well loved by those around him. She knew Denam was someone she should look up to, but some part of her refused to be seen in the same way as him by her people. Instead, Catiua took on a firmer stance, distancing herself, letting Denam gain the favor of the commons. Catiua knew she had to carve her own name out in history, even if it meant using Denam's blade to do so.

She looked over to Denam, who was sitting by the fire, writing something that Catiua assumed to orders. She unintentionally squirmed, feeling a bit of annoyance and helplessness. She wanted to find some way to help him, because she hated feeling worthless, but at the same time she was frustrated that Denam was no longer relying on her and asking for her assistance. Catiua knew it was her own fault, and she knew the distance between them would likely only grow in the future when she ascended to Queen, but it still hurt that Denam had grown without her. Across the fire she saw Olivya kneel down by Denam, resting a hand on his shoulder. Denam didn't look up, but as his countenance relaxed, Catiua felt her own tense. Is she not a Sybil? How dare she be so bold! Catiua watched as the Sybil whispered something to Denam, causing Denam to nod offhandedly and give her a small smile. Olivya then got up and left and Catiua realized she was clenching her fists.

"It's your fault, you know." Catiua turned abruptly and the voice continued. "You pushed him away first."

Catiua eyed the man, Azelstan she knew his name to be. She didn't know where Denam had picked him up, but he was dirty, intoxicated, and looked all together untrustworthy. Catiua tried to remain tolerant of Denam's allies, but some pushed her a bit too far. She snapped back without thinking

"And you've any right to judge?"

The man laughed and sat down next to her. Catiua inched away from him unintentionally, but Azelstan held onto her leg, stopping her from leaving. Though he gave off the appearance of a casual, apathetic man, he was amazingly perceptive.

"I know you better than you know yourself, girl. You sit here, pretending to be strong, but in truth, you're terrified."

"You don't know what you're talking about. Stop pushing your delusions onto me and leave me in peace!"

"Sorry Princess, no can do. You need to open your eyes to the world around you. To see everything you're scared of."

Catiua turned her nose in the air in disgust. Surely this man wasn't serious? Catiua knew the world wasn't pretty, that it was bloody and cruel, and that lives were being lost daily. She was no longer a little girl who believed in "happily ever after" without cost.

"Are you done?"

"Look at him, Princess." There was no question who '_he' _was. "He's hurt. Sad. Broken, even. He surrounds himself with his work because he has no other way to deal with his emotions." The man sighed and Catiua turned towards him. She glared and narrowed her eyes, attempting to force the bottle from the intoxicated man's grasp. She heard a surprised grunt, and they fought over it for a moment, until the contents splashed all over them both, causing Catiua to let go with an uncomfortable gasp. Both of them fell backwards in response, causing the elder man's hat to fall off his head.

Azelstan frowned, gently dusting off his hat and Catiua glared, offhandedly brushing herself off in an unintentional mimicry of his motions.

"What do you seek to gain, by saying such things? Who are you to judge him, let alone me?"

The man laughed loudly this time, and threw his now-empty bottle into the large bonfire. She feared he would wake the whole camp up with his loud guffaws. "Now listen close, Princess. You're hurting. He's hurting. You're both too stubborn to do anything about it. If you truly want to be the woman you pretend you are, make a move on your own. Not everything revolves around you." Catiua almost snorted in indignation, but stopped halfway through the sound as Azelstan continued. "The Commander doesn't deal with his own problems because he holds everyone else's close to his heart."

Azelstan stretched, got up, and gently put his hat onto Catiua's head, patting it down gently.

"He cares too deeply for you to burden you wish his own problems. So go talk to him, give him the release he so desperately needs. It's something only you can do."

As Azelstan walked away, Catiua could almost hear him murmur, but isn't sure if it is simply her conscience speaking to her.

"He sacrifices everything so you don't have to."

She fiddled gently with the hat, not sure if she wanted to rip it off and throw it in the fire or to keep it on, taking in the warm memories that came with it. For a few moments, Catiua found herself staring at her hands. Memories of the cool sword, of staring down at Denam, and of her insecurity as Denam begged with pleading eyes. In shame, she put her face in her hands.

But, no, this wasn't about her. Not this time. It was time to grow up, Catiua knew, and stop thinking of her own conflicts. Her actions had an impact on others, her own struggle would have to be put aside. Looking back up with newfound confidence, she gently took the warm hat off her head and put it down on the ground where Azelstan had previously been sitting. She quietly got up and walked over to Denam, sitting behind him with her arms around his waist, as she had held him when they were children. She was shaking as she rested her hand on his, but forced herself to stop.

Apologizing would never be enough. There was no going back after what she had done.

It was time to understand what _he _felt, not cry over her mistakes.

"_Denam_."


	10. Shame: DenamOlivyaCressida

This is another Chaos path story that occurs after taking Heim, but before the Hanging Gardens.

This fiction is very loosely based off of the hotsprings scenes in _Agarest: Generations of Wa_r (Or _Record of Agarest War,_ depending on where you live). I've never approached this particular kink before, so it's interesting and I hope I do it justice.

Be aware of female/female relationships and masturbation.

_**Shame**_

* * *

><p><em>"Denam."<em>

Denam waved the voice off, not caring to be disturbed. The assault on the Hanging Gardens was to be dangerous and unknown, and Denam had to plan for every possible circumstance. He was currently looking over supplies, troop values, reports on morale, as well as reading through Lodissian strategy manuals, trying to see if there was anything he might glean into Loslorien's motivations for flight into the Gardens, which seemed to Denam nothing more than prolonging the inevitable. In his obsession he was ignoring some of the more minor reports of disobedience and abuses, instead handing them off to his Captains as he focused his attentions on the more pressing matters.

_"Denam!"_

The voice was loud now and Denam frowned. He attempted to ignore it again, and succeeded, until a large gloved hand came down right on top of his papers. Denam looked up with a glare, meeting the eyes of one Diego Azelstan, who was sitting on the edge of his desk lazily. Denam sighed, and attempted to push aside Azelstan, who wasn't budging.

"Is there such a problem, Azelstan, that you would barge into my office and disrupt me when I've given specific orders to not be disturbed? What did you do with the guards?"

Denam came off harsher than he intended to, but he was worried, nervous, and knew that everything was hinging on the results of the next battle. A glance at Azelstan showed that the elder didn't seem to care, instead shrugging as he replied.

"There's an emergency, boy." Shocked, Denam got up and drew his sword. He was ready to call for the guards when Azelstan moved to silence him. Denam eyed him curiously, not sure what was going on. Azelstan lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned in to Denam. Denam unintentionally moved back at the invasion of his personal space. "You need to come quickly and quietly, else we won't be able to save them!"

Denam noted his severe expression and while he felt that _something _was off, Azelstan likely had a reason for what he was doing. After a moment of hesitation, Denam finally nodded and walked towards the door. Azelstan slid off of the desk and waved for Denam to follow. They were silent, and Denam felt himself looking about cautiously, looking for any impending threats. He ignored the salutes from the Bakram soldiers stationed around the castle, eyes remaining on the shadows. Azelstan, in contrast, was calm and pleasant and _was that a tune he was humming? _Denam found himself overwhelmed by annoyance. How could he be so calm when there was danger nearby? He said nothing, forcing himself into calmness. There was no need to attack Azelstan; it was his own stress that was putting him in a foul mood. Azelstan had not done anything.

Azelstan stopped before the exit to the gardens and motioned for Denam to be silent with a finger to his lips. Denam nodded his understanding and they both quietly walked outside. Denam was glad he lacked armor, for it would have impaired his stealth ability and likely would have caused him to be caught. Azelstan pointed down a small path to their right, motioning for Denam to go in that direction, while showing that he would go to his left. So, they were to split up, Denam concluded. Once again, Denam nodded, grasping his sword as he moved cautiously through the foliage.

Denam walked for a moment until he heard soft laughter. No, it wasn't laughter; the sound was two soft voices speaking in a worried, feminine manner. He immediately ducked down behind a nearby bush, trying to get closer. Women were just as effective warriors as men, Denam knew from experience, and no matter how happy they sounded, they could use their voices as a lure, like Sirens in the tales of the sea. He moved cautiously along the path of bushes and flowers until he reached a clearing. He heard their voices before seeing their faces, but was instantly able to place them as Olivya and Cressida.

"You seem to know a lot about it."

"Not really, I must admit. As a healer I've become familiar with the human body, but I've not done anything like this."

"You forget, I'm a healer as well. My specialty in healing just happens to fall outside the living. This is a completely new experience for me."

What was this about? Denam kept his blade drawn and turned around, gently rustling through the bush to get a better view. Denam's eyes went wide as he saw the scene in front of him. Cressida's dress and hood were down, exposing her lean figure and small breasts; her long red hair flowed down her back and swayed softly in the wind. Denam cautiously looked over to Olivya, who had her boots off and her cloak had fallen to the ground beside Cressida's veil. Her arms were across her chest, trying to protect against the soft chill in the autumn air, only causing her breasts to be pushed forward tightly against her robe in an all-too-inappropriate way for a Sybil. Denam turned his eyes down, but didn't move. The way her breasts had been pushed together was firmly etched in his mind, a harsh contrast to his memories of her as a young girl when they would play nude together in the streams. Forcing his mind away from the very inappropriate subject at hand, he went back to the current problem: Where was Azelstan's "emergency?"

"Come now, Olivya. I thought we'd gone over this already. I've exposed myself for the world to see, it's your turn. We'll get nowhere if you refuse to remove your robe."

"I know. I swore I wouldn't back out, and I won't. Will you please help me with the buttons down the back?"

"I would be my pleasure, please turn around."

Denam felt himself grow curious. What _were _those two doing? He cautiously raised his eyes when he heard rustling from the direction of the women and his breath stopped. Olivya faced him, holding her hair up on her head as Cressida stood behind her, gently releasing the aforementioned buttons. As each button was released, the dress fell down temptingly, teasing Denam into imagining what exactly lay below it. It slowly revealed her slender neck, slipping down to her collarbone and shoulders, revealing her necklace, and was soon hanging on only by the last few buttons. Denam knew he should look away, but by Philaha he couldn't. The dress finally, _finally,_ fell down over her breasts and to the ground, falling into a pile at Olivya's feet. Olivya let her hair down, pushing it forward into soft waves that partially covered her exposed breasts. Denam found himself exploring her body unintentionally, noting her pale breasts, nipples peaked from the chill in the wind, surrounded by a compacted areola. His gaze traveled down her lean form, which Olivya covered with her slender arms in shame.

Denam was shocked to see that she lacked any undergarments under her dress. In hindsight, it wasn't surprising considering how exposed she was in her common clothes, but a small part of his mind, that manifested itself in his sister's voice spoke with certainty of the woman: "thoroughly inappropriate for a Sybil!" Denam could also hear his father's disapproving tone, but ignored it. As he explored the rest of her body, Denam curiously wondered what Olivya looked under the small pile of curled hairs in her feminine regions. Other than in books, he'd never seen a female of her age naked before and was quite interested in seeing the differences between a woman and a child. Offhandedly, the logical part of his mind noted the light tan on Olivya's legs where her robe did not cover, in contrast to the pale skin of her breasts, arms, and abdomen.

Forcing his eyes up to Olivya's face was a harder battle than even drawing his blade on Sir Leonar. Olivya's face was covered with a blush, but a soft smile. Denam didn't understand the reason or meaning for the smile, but it fit her features and he would like to see it directed towards him. Olivya quickly turned to Cressida, and Denam's eyes once again found their way down her curves, resting on her hips and buttocks. He wondered how it would feel under his hands, and how hard he would have to touch to get a reaction. Olivya and Cressida spoke once again.

"Your turn, Cressida." Denam heard soft laughter at that.

"Very well."

For some reason, it was easier to look on Cressida. Perhaps it was because Cressida was so foreign and unknown to Denam, or perhaps it was because she was not a Sybil and therefore not "inappropriate." Denam cautiously admitted a third option to himself: Cressida was always exposed, to an extent, so his mind had wandered, as he knew all warm-blooded male's minds had, on what she would like without her robe. She had a different beauty than Olivya. Where Olivya was curved, Cressida, who was gently sliding her own dress over her hips, was pale and lean. Denam might even call her exotic, perhaps it was simply that he was unused to Galgastani women. Her hands were delicate, but something about them told Denam that she was experienced in using them for touching and molding flesh to her will. Denam wondered what it would feel like to have Cressida's delicate hands run over his penis just as she molded flesh in her arts, teasing him with strokes and experienced massages.

Mortified at the very thought of Cressida touching him in such a way, Denam dropped his sword in shock, causing both the women to gasp. The women looked at each other, then looked around in a panic. Denam hid his face in shame and turned around, leaning back against the bush, trying to force his thoughts away from that dark direction and praying that they wouldn't see him. He was not a boy anymore, Denam told himself, he should not lack such self-control. As the young women murmured to each other in a worried manner, Denam listed off his troop values, his detachments, the location and placement of his troops in alphabetical order by town, as well as his currently available resources and allies in the nobility in a desperate attempt to get his mind off of Cressida and what she would do to his penis.

Trying not to think of his arousal only made it harder to avoid. Denam isn't sure how long he spent against the bush, trying to calm down, but it felt like a decade. His breaths were quiet and uneven, trying desperately not to alert the women, but it was just so distracting! It seemed like an eternity before he was able to calm himself. Unfortunately, that was also when he started paying attention the voices again. Despite his shame, Denam found himself looking back to the women, only to turn away every few seconds. It was a cycle that went on for at least ten minutes.

"So where do we begin?"

"If you don't mind, I'd like to see how your body reacts when I stimulate different locations."

"Cressida, I think what you mean to say is 'I want to touch you all over', yes?"

"I'd prefer to be a bit less direct, but, yes, that is what I plan on doing."

Cressida approached Olivya and looked her up and down with what Denam assumed to be professional curiosity. Cressida cautiously raised her hand and poked at the flesh between Olivya's hips and ribs, causing Olivya to squeak and curl up, leaning down and giving Denam a pleasant view of her cleavage pressed between her arms. Cressida jumped back in response at Olivya's motion. Both girls started giggling at something Denam didn't quite understand, and without a word, Olivya stood back up and Cressida, more gently this time, touched Olivya's side and hips. Even from a distance, Denam could see Olivya visibly shudder.

"Oh, stop being so shy and be done with it, Cressida!"

The red-head made a soft sound before moving closer. She delicately ran a hand down Olivya's collarbone, letting her fingers slide down her arm before grasping Olivya's hand. She took Olivya's hand in both of her own and flipped it palm upward, gently running her fingers over the skin. She seemed intensely curious about Olivya's palm, even lifting her own up for comparison. Denam wasn't sure what the point was, but Cressida seemed to disapprove of something on her own.

Dropping Olivya's hand gently, Cressida continued her exploration down and around Olivya's hips; _she certainly didn't just touch what I think she did, did she?, _Denam couldn't see, but Cressida's arm circled Olivya's midsection and Olivya made a squeak and colored again, causing Cressida to quietly laugh in turn.

"Your embarrassment is making this more difficult than it should be."

"This goes against everything I've been taught!"

"Was it not just you telling me to 'get on with it'?"

Olivya laughed in response, causing Cressida to shake her head, but even though Denam couldn't see it, he knew she smiled, the same quiet smile that she only gave when she believed no-one was looking. Denam had often tried to provoke Cressida's smile, unfortunately only succeeding at making her frown or confused. Cressida's hand moved back to Olivya's front side, where and she kneeled, fingers stroking Olivya's thighs. As they circled around the inside, Olivya shuddered again, and Cressida seemed satisfied at that result.

"Cressida, I think this is what you were looking for."

Cressida immediately stood up, and Olivya pointed at her breasts and abdomen. She seemed hesitant to speak.

"When you stroke me like that, I warm in my lower regions. There's also some slight pressure behind my nipples."

"Excellent." Cressida replied in a gleeful tone that reminded Denam far too much of her father's.

Cressida examined Olivya's breasts with a serious expression before finally touching her nipples. She ran a finger around the pink areola, then the soft pale skin outside, then back over the areola again. Denam didn't quite know what she was doing, but he had an intense urge to try something similar on the naked woman. Cressida lowered her face close to the nipple as she touched it. Denam couldn't see from his perspective, but somehow he knew that Cressida was rolling Olivya's nipple around in her fingers.

"Um, Cressida. . .I'm not sure how to delicately put it, but when the soldiers talk about 'wet' I think they're referring to this."

Denam wasn't sure if he was being rewarded by God or tempted by the Ogres at this point. Perhaps this was a trial? He turned away again, but his mind was still trying to imagine what the soft breasts felt like in his hands, while also wondering what exactly it was that Olivya had felt when Cressida played with her nipples.. _Father, what would you do? _His father didn't answer, of course, and Denam only felt more conflicted. He knew he was being a horrible man, and if Cressida and Olivya ever knew he was here, they would probably leave the islands and never return, not to mention how it would tarnish his reputation with the troops. The people held him on a pedestal and letting it be known that he felt lust would lower him down to "mortality." While Denam liked to be viewed as a normal man, he also knew that could possibly cause dissent. Logically his mind was telling him that only bad could come if he was caught watching these two, and yet he still couldn't look away. Every corner of his working mind was telling the entire situation was terribly, horribly wrong, but the rest of his body was whispering that it was _oh-so right._

"Is this good?"

"Aaa! That's not nearly enough. Harder, Cressida."

"I don't think 'harder' will help, Olivya. I'll try something different though."

As if against his very will, Denam looked back to the two women. They were in something of a strange position, Olivya facing him, and Cressida turned away. They were very close and Denam could see Olivya's breasts pressed against Cressida and her arms were clutched around the other woman's waist. He heard Olivya gasp and make a loud giggle as she replied to Cressida: "Yes, like tha-Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

"Eeeek!" Cressida screamed in return.

Denam hid again behind the bushes, terrified he'd been caught, but heard a soft thump and rustling, followed by more gasps and giggles. He once again questioned why he remained. Damn Azelstan and whatever threat he claimed to have found! The threat was keeping him in the garden, and Denam was worried that it might escape into the castle. The argument wasn't very convincing, even to himself. Denam took another quick peek and noticed the girls had fallen to the ground and were laughing over the ridiculous position they ended up in. Cressida was laying on top of Olivya now, legs spread over her hips and a warm smile on her face. Olivya had a soft blush, but was no longer covering herself with her arms. She continued giggling and suddenly stopped. From the distance, Denam couldn't tell what happened, but he saw a playful smile on her features and in a quick motion, she rolled over, grasping at Cressida with her legs, causing them both to roll around in the grass. Cressida didn't share in Olivya's laughter and, from what Denam could tell, she looked thoroughly confused and terrified at Olivya's outburst. This only served to amuse Olivya more, who was now on top of the other woman.

Olivya traced her finger down Cressida's stomach, and Cressida turned her face to the side in a surprising blush. Denam found himself curious about her sudden change in demeanor; a moment ago, Cressida was confident, willing to experiment, but now she was blushing, silent, and looking so very vulnerable. Olivya seemed to notice the change and commented to the other woman:

"Oh, Cressida! You needn't be shy. You're so beautiful."

"I'm not used to anyone seeing me like this."

"But we've been naked for some time now."

"No, that's not it. I'm not used to being so close, so intimate, and letting anyone else see me in such a vulnerable state is. . .unnerving."

Olivya leaned down over the other women, giving her what appeared to be a hug. Denam wasn't sure if they were talking, but he soon realized that Olivya's hug had turned into gentle kisses, getting longer and more passionate as she reached Cressida's mouth. Denam could see them whispering now, but couldn't quite hear their words. He unintentionally leaned in, before realizing what he was doing and forced himself back up. _This isn't right, Denam. It's best to leave now_. But the sad, frightened expression on Cressida's face, and the memory of Olivya's playful blush kept him rooted in place. Denam once again found his mind wandering as Olivya played at Cressida's small round breasts, two fingers surrounding the nipple and massaging the areola, pressing the nipple upward curiously, mimicking Cressida's actions just moments before. Olivya licked at the top for a second, and examined it curiously before gently rubbing it and continuing to the other breast and down Cressida's stomach. Denam imagined Olivya's breathless, blushing face as she sat on top of him, grinding into his form and her breasts bouncing as he pushed roughly into her. Olivya's soft pants in-between kisses on top of Cressida only emphasized his fantasy, with each pant being another thrust.

He was aroused again. Mortified, Denam actually curled up and put his head in his knees, knowing he was far too old to be aroused so easily, let alone so often. Even though he couldn't see the duo, the soft sounds that escaped from the small clearing beyond the bush were haunting him and making it absolutely impossible to think rationally. Listing facts about his army wasn't distracting Denam this time.

"O-Olivya! That's not what I meant when I said 'explore each other'!"

Cressida gasped and was breathing heavily. Denam peeked again, just for a moment, he told himself, and saw that Olivya's head was down near Cressida's lower regions. Cressida was breathing heavily, chest heaving, mouth slightly opened. Denam found himself finally giving into his urges and putting his hand down his pants. Almost automatically he moved his hand up and down his aroused penis; as he did so, he imagined Cressida's open mouth over it, her soft gasps being the sounds she was making as she licked and sucked. He gently moved his foreskin over his head, this time imagining it to be Olivya, himself in Cressida's body as she licked and played with it. That worked nicely, and he moved more quickly down his shaft, letting his breaths match Cressida's.

It hit him hard in horror at what he was doing and immediately removed his hands from his pants, breathing heavily. It was painful, and Denam's body was screaming for him to continue. He clenched his fists and did his very best to force self-control that he was known for. It was one of the hardest things he could remember doing. His goal was made even harder by Cressida's soft voice crying out breathily behind him:

"Ah! Olivya!"

In his mind she screamed _Ah! Denam! _and Denam knew couldn't resist any longer. He slid his hand back in his pants as the memory of Cressida's cries urged him on. His hand moved quickly now, in a steady rhythm thatonly became faster as he imaged Olivya holding his penis in her mouth, and Cressida running her hands down his chest, red hair falling over his shoulder as she kissed his neck and lips. Denam shivered, each tremor that racked his body a touch of one of the women in his mind. It happened all at once, and Denam released a soft moan and fell back into the bush at the force of his orgasm. He sat there for a moment, penis exposed and pants down. He didn't feel anything but relief.

His relief was short lived as the world came crashing down around him. His body was slick with sweat and his trousers were a mess from semen that he very rarely relieved himself of. His heart was beating quickly, but his mind was slightly delayed. It took a moment for all the horror at what he had done to come back at full force, and as soon as it did, Denam quickly pulled up his trousers, not caring at the slimy feel of semen against his skin and picked up his sword, which was on the ground nearby.

Despite the louder sounds coming from Olivya and Cressida, Denam quickly crawled, and then ran back out of the garden. Azelstan's threat, or lack therefore, of be damned, Denam had acted horribly and couldn't stand to go anywhere near that garden again. He wanted to change his clothes, bathe, and go curl up under his sheets and possibly die. He fled with what little honor and composure that remained within him, only slightly acknowledging his troops as he passed. When he finally reached his room, he leaned back heavily against the door and closed his eyes, hard, trying to blind himself from everything he'd seen. Never before had he felt like such a helpless child as when his body responded and he could not deny it.

In his silence, Denam internally apologized to his father, the Abuna who had taught him honor and morals.

He apologized to his Mother, bless her soul, for her lessons on being a good man, respectful to all women.

He apologized to Catiua, because she would hate him if she knew what Denam had just done.

He apologized to Vyce, for failing to live up to his very best and giving into his weakness.

He apologized to all of his troops for his selfishness.

He apologized to Cerya, Sherri, and Cistina for thinking such of their sister. Mrueva came to his mind shortly after.

He even apologized to the twisted Nybeth.

Denam continued on and on, but there was one thing that was notably absent. Whether it was on purpose or truly an accident, Denam never apologized to Cressida and Olivya.

* * *

><p>Diego Azelstan sat atop the walls of Heim lazily. The sun was sinking in the distance, and he raised his rum to the sky in silent thanks for the day. His hair floated gently back in the wind and he enjoyed the warm breeze on his face, for soon it would turn to a night chill. It had been a surprisingly productive day, and Azelstan applauded himself.<p>

Today he had made Denam a man.


	11. Devotion: CatiuaOz

This beast of a story takes place in 3L.

I love Oz. Anyone who speaks to me about Tactics Ogre on a regular basis knows this; writing Oz is amazingly fun and addicting. But, as with previous stories containing Oz, expect violence, torture, and other unpleasant games.

Among other typical Oz-like behaviors, be aware that sex is a rather large part of this fiction. Sex used includes, but is not limited to, masturbation, (very) heavy S&M, incest, and M/F/F relations

What I want the reader to understand more than anything with this fiction is that what our narrator sees isn't always the truth. This is Catiua's view of the events and her assumptions of the actions of others might not always be the correct ones. If someone seems out of character, this is Catiua's view of the person and it is likely very intentional on my part.

_**Devotion**_

* * *

><p>The books always begin with a saying: "The silence was deafening." For Catiua, there was never a truer statement. The silence felt as if it was eating away at her and she tapped her fingers on the table just for that reminder that she was, indeed, alive and well. She was alone. Always, always alone. It was for her own protection, Tartaros would say when confronted about it, and Catiua knew he was right, but even if it put her in danger she would have liked to have some companion. Perhaps Tartaros didn't trust her with their plans yet and that was why he kept her away from his meetings? No, that couldn't be it. He told her, quite bluntly oftentimes, what he was planning to do with her.<p>

Every day was routine and it was tearing her apart. She would wake up, the servants would dress her, and soon after more servants would come to bring her breakfast. At first, Catiua had objected to having people in her space, doing things she felt that she should be doing herself, but she had slowly, cautiously given in. She was a Princess now, it would be best for her to act like one. After dressing and eating, Catiua would be left in her room for an hour or so, until Lanselot Tartaros would come to check on her. He asked how she was doing, if there was anything she needed, and if there was anything he could do to make her stay more enjoyable.

Despite her previous hostility to the man, Catiua enjoyed her time with Lanselot Tartaros. He was her key to the outside world, other than the servants. The servants spread their whispers as easily, but most were second-hand and it was difficult to discern the truth from the lies. Tartaros had widespread and reliable whisperers and was willing to share information with her, to an extent. She had learned quickly what questions he would not tolerate and, as long as she avoided certain subjects, Tartaros was well mannered, respectful, and Catiua found herself relying on him for the companionship she desperately needed. She was a bit annoyed that he put more effort into his work than her, but she could accept it as long as he didn't abandon her.

After their morning discussions, Tartaros would escort her to a small room off to the side of his office for a few hours as he received reports and gave orders. Catiua sat in the room silently, minding her own business. Despite that, the room had driven her to insanity. Though she had often been given a book or some paper to write on, she could only do so much, for the room was too small for pacing and exercise and Catiua felt she was losing her touch. She had spent some time practicing her spells, but even that could only entertain her for so long. Finally, Catiua had approached Tartaros in frustration, telling him that she couldn't stand it anymore. The room was driving her mad and she asked to be allowed out sometimes. It had taken a lot of pressing, but Tartaros had finally given in with a frustrated sigh and Catiua had felt a tinge of satisfaction. She had been permitted to spend some time practicing in the fields along with a high-ranked escort, oftentimes Tartaros himself. This relieved the monotony of her life somewhat.

Every day after her training, she would eat lunch. She then was sent to the library, where she would spend the rest of the day until dinner, before going to bed. She was currently sitting at a small table in the enclosed room, with a duo of helmeted Dark Knights standing at the entrance, making sure none without permission entered or left. The library was still stifling, but at least there were enough books to keep her entertained. If she was bored, she often tried to speak with the Dark Knights, who were stiff and often told her they were not permitted to discuss anything or speak with her. But some contact with others was better than none and it served to amuse her. After spending her day in the library, she would be returned to her room, where she would be fed, undressed, and left alone until she went to bed.

Thus was her life. In some ways, she was happy to have such dullness return. This is what she had longed for with Denam; she wanted a life of peace, happiness, and of safety and security. It was strange indeed that she found safety within the arms of the Dark Knights who had stolen it from her initially. But in others, and Catiua was loathe to admit it, she longed for the past she had lost. Every time she found herself thinking on the past, she attacked herself, telling herself that only children want to change the past. A more rational part of Catiua whispered that the past builds the present and to deny the past is the child's dream. Catiua certainly had no intention of being a child any longer, and so her inner conflict grew daily. It was a debate that she often had with herself, and one that she never quite reached a conclusion to. Some nights she would spend hours in bed looking up at the roof reminiscing on how she could change things. She was well aware that the past was unchangeable, but the present was free for the molding. Catiua was in the perfect position to build a better future for herself - and for her people, of course.

This day was no different from any other. It was early evening and Catiua remained sitting in the library, alone, with only her guards as companions. A book was open in front of her, but she paid it no heed; instead she relaxed, elbow on the table, chin on her hand, and eyes glazed over from lack of interest. But unlike other days, Catiua was disturbed by the loud screech of the heavy double doors being pushed open. Catiua was immediately alert, standing with sword in hand. Through the doors came what appeared to be a lone man in dark armor, marking him as a Dark Knight. Catiua remained cautious and got up from her chair, prepared to defend herself if necessary. The man waved off the guards, who didn't move, then frowned.

"You're not needed here. This one's mine."

The Dark Knights didn't move, causing the newcomer no little amount of agitation. Catiua drew her sword in worry, the blade making a gentle sound as she removed it from the sheath. Still, no one looked to her and Catiua found herself annoyed that they would pretend she was not there. One of her companions finally spoke, cautiously.

"Pardon, Sir Oz, but the High Commander has ordered the Princess remain in our sight."

The man made a sound of distaste. He seemed to contemplate removing the guards himself before finally deciding against it. After a short moment, he turned to Catiua, causing Catiua to unintentionally take a step back. Catiua couldn't decide if his demeanor was pleasant or predatory, for he seemed an odd mix of both. Catiua forced herself to meet his eyes, and took another step back as he reached her. He only seemed more amused at the submissive motion, only serving to annoy Catiua more. Catiua pointed her sword at him, demanding the first thing that came to mind in her panic.

"Who are you? No one's supposed to come here!"

The man looked bored. He gently brought up one armored hand and tilted the tip of Catiua's sword down with a finger.

"One would think that a Princess would be above the rest of her people, and yet she can't even manage a simple greeting." He released a dramatic sigh, making a show of shaking his head in sadness. "I am Oz Moh Glacius, your Highness, and I am simply here to talk."

"Then talk and be gone from my sight." Catiua didn't like him. His demeanor lacked respect and his tone was apathetic. Despite her distaste she knew to be respectful, at least until the Lodissian have her reason to do otherwise.

Oz motioned to the chair Catiua had previously been sitting at. Catiua cautiously went back over, sheathing her sword, and sat as Oz pushed the chair in behind her. He took a chair across the table. He didn't say anything for a few minutes, and Catiua found that keeping his gaze was difficult given his stern and commanding presence. She eventually turned her eyes down, unintentionally shuddering, not quite sure what she was supposed to say or do. Lodissians had odd cultural habits and she didn't want to offend him more than she already had. On second thought, why not? What did it matter that she offended him? He had barged in on her personal time as if he had every right to it!

Catiua didn't act on the hostile thought, for the little voice in the back of her mind desperately wanted him to speak. She had so very little contact with the outside world that anyone who was willing to have a conversation with her was welcome. Besides, it wasn't "her" time; was she not just complaining about having too much time to herself? If she wanted to make the most of this short amount with her new "companion," she'd best do it herself. As if emphasizing her determination, Oz's fingers tapped on the table in boredom.

"Sir Oz," Catiua started hesitantly, not sure what to say. At her words his face lit up and Catiua found herself worried at the change in demeanor. "Is there anything in particular that you came to speak with me about? As I said earlier, no one is supposed to come here."

The Dark Knight continued tapping his fingers, but didn't say anything. She tried to catch his eye, but other than a small smile he didn't seem to care she was there at all. He made no move to acknowledge her presence and Catiua found herself grated at the lack of response. After all the fuss about talking, he had no interest in continuing? A quieter part of her mind reminded her that she might have done something incorrectly; perhaps it was only appropriate for males to make conversation in Lodis? She wanted to shrug the voice off, but Catiua knew it was a very real possibility. She reminded herself to read up on Lodissian culture in a day or two. Tartaros was so accommodating to her wishes that she often forgot that he was not from Valeria in the first place.

Catiua went back to her silence, but the tension between the two had only thickened. His constant tapping was grating her nerves to the point where she wanted to put her hands over her ears. He alternated between hands, and sometimes even hit boot tapped against the floor. If he was so bored, Catiua internally fumed, why does he not make an attempt to start the conversation? Annoyance slipped onto her features, and it soon turned to anger. She did her best to stay calm, but her body language spoke more than any words. Her hands were clenched into fists and her lips were pressed tightly together. She turned down to the book she had been reading, attempting to read, not really comprehending or understanding the words. Her mood was a distraction and finally, she stood up, chair making a loud squeal against the stone floor.

"What do you want? I demand you leave now!" Catiua looked towards the Templars near the door who were not moving. They seemed to be purposely ignoring her.

Though her comment drew a reaction from the man, to her utter annoyance it was not the one she was expecting. Catiua was infuriated to hear a soft laughter and she stamped her foot in frustration, not sure how to express the emotion other than by outright hitting him. She was not foolish enough to try that. She was breathing heavily with her chest heaving as she glared at the Templar across from her, who only seemed to be enjoying her reaction more and more.

"Is there a problem, Princess?"

"Yes!" She screeched and had no doubt her voice echoed down the hall. She didn't care. "You come in here demanding my attention, I give it to you, and you do nothing but annoy me in return? Have you no sense of decency or respect?"

Oz didn't move. Instead he examined his glove with a frown on his face that Catiua didn't understand. He looked back up and spoke with a scolding tone:

"Princess, I was simply awaiting your introduction." Catiua's mouth fell open, but before she could say anything, he continued. "After all, we cannot have a discussion without proper introductions, can we?" He said this with a sad sigh and Catiua found her anger drain. Despite her frustration, she realized that he was right; Catiua had demanded him to speak but had never properly introduced herself. Her anger diminished slightly, but her annoyance remained, not only at him, but at herself. He certainly could have said something instead of being so rude about it.

Catiua finally spoke, softer this time, but still letting her annoyance slip through. "I am Versalia Oberyth, but I prefer Catiua. You may address me as 'Princess.'"

The Dark Knight nodded, and lowered his head respectfully. Catiua didn't know if the motion was serious or not; he was a hard man to read, and an even harder one to understand. Catiua forced herself to sit down and was pleasantly surprised when the man started speaking.

"Yes, yes, Catiua. I've heard some horrid tales of how you came to us. Abandoned by your brother!" Oz paused and had a dark, dangerous expression on his face and Catiua wasn't sure what brought it on - she barely recognized that she had spoken her first name instead of her title. "Disgusting. I'd never abandon my sister as he did you! 'Tis frustrating enough when I'm assigned to babysitting Brantyn Morne in Heim and cannot be afield with her."

Catiua immediately decided to reappraise her opinion on the Templar. It was as if he was speaking her thoughts! While his actions had been an annoyance just moments before, Catiua admitted that perhaps she had judged him too quickly. She found herself nodding offhandedly and replied to him.

"You're absolutely correct; my brother did abandon me. I don't know what the 'tales' are saying, but they seem to have that part right." She paused. "Though I must admit I worry about your tone regarding Regent Morne. Are you not here on his good will?"

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently, and it set the man off. Catiua found herself worried for her safety as the man glared.

"Do not speak as if you understand my duty! You of all people should understand the tedium of castle life, how it rots away at you and tears you apart! Brantyn is a child who cries when he does not get his way; I've no respect for a man like that, no matter his position in the church! These entire islands are filled with incompetent leaders and, had I my way, I'd replace them all!"

Catiua was surprised at the outburst, since he had been so well mannered just moments before. It seemed like such a small thing that caused the explosion and Catiua admitted she had no idea why he would act such. While she did not quite share his opinion, it was obvious that Oz was very passionate about his duty and his country. It reminded her painfully of Denam's own devotion, but at least Oz seemed to worry for his sister while he was away.

"Please accept my sincerest apologies, Sir. I didn't mean to stir up such negative emotions."

His mood lightened and the smile appeared back on his face as if by magic. The threatening air disappeared immediately, but Catiua still felt herself on edge. His temper made him dangerous; she would do well to watch what she said in the future, especially if his mood could change so drastically from an offhanded comment.

"Apology accepted, your Highness. My duty, and my sister, is a subject very close to my heart, so I hate it when I'm forced to choose between one and the other. Do not worry; we of Lodis respect our vows and have no intention of abandoning you as your brother did. But enough of this dour subject, there's a reason I've come to speak to you. It's about-"

"Oz!"

Catiua looked up, and Oz winced, slowly standing and turning to face the voice of Lanselot Tartaros. Catiua remained sitting and watched as the men seemed to have a silent conversation. Catiua could tell that Tartaros wasn't particularly pleased at Oz's presence and his tone spoke of upcoming punishment.

"Dismissed, Oz. We'll discuss your insubordination later."

Oz turned stiffly back to Catiua, giving her an elegant bow. He looked ready to say something, but was stopped as Tartaros firmly cleared his throat, letting the other Templar know it was absolutely not the time. Catiua watched as he walked out of the room swiftly, barely paying attention to what Tartaros was saying.

Despite the strangeness of the scenario, Catiua found herself refreshed. It was nice to finally speak with someone new, not to mention someone who was empathetic to her plight.

* * *

><p>Her life went back to "normal," if it could be said to be such, after her encounter with Oz. On multiple occasions had she questioned Tartaros about him, only to receive grunts or other sounds of annoyance, followed by a rapid change in subject. Though Catiua admitted it was childish, the more Tartaros denied her, the more she wanted to know why Oz was not permitted to see her. She had questioned her guards and, though she could not see their faces, she could tell they were hiding something when they replied with a simple: "It's for the better."<p>

Frustrated at the unsatisfying answers, she had then asked her servants, who had been more than willing to talk. She had learned he was a Knight Commander, and wondered why she hadn't figured it out on her own, given his manner with both Tartaros and her Templar guards. One male servant who brought her food said that he often spent time in the dungeons when he was not afield, another said that often his clothes were more bloodied than the other Loslorien Commanders, even the brutal Barbas, whom Catiua had not personally met.

One of the younger Lodissian slave girls, a natural beauty that even Catiua felt jealous of, went white as a sheet at the mention of Oz's name, saying nothing more than that he was a wonderful master. It had been an odd exchange, and Catiua knew the girl was hiding something. The girl's companion whispered quietly to Catiua that Oz had some "perverse" hobbies, but either didn't know what they were or was unwilling to speak of them. One of the older servants whispered about how Oz spent longer getting ready in the morning than Catiua did and had some very improper undergarments. Catiua hadn't known how to respond to that, instead choosing to quickly changing the subject. One of the servants who filled her bathwater told Catiua that the only thing she remembered about him was his body. At that point, Catiua decided to never question the gossiping servants again, for they gave her nothing but nonsense and a headache. It was impossible to tell which tales were true with these people; Catiua decided it to be best to make her own decisions regarding the Templar.

It was more than half a Scale before she saw him again. As with before, she had been in the library, but she had been losing hope that she would meet him again. In some ways, Catiua felt like a little girl, secretly meeting with a man against her guardian's orders. The feeling was exaggerated by the fact that he was mysterious and unknown and she didn't even know _why _she wanted to meet him. Oz had simply filled the void she needed by changing up her daily monotonous routine. The more logical part of her mind told her that she was clinging to him because he was the only person to give her any attention as more than a Princess; she warned herself that he had to have some ulterior motives for doing so.

Upon his entry to the library, Oz completely ignored her guards and took the chair across from her. His informality was only emphasized by his lack of armor, instead wearing casual clothing of an unfamiliar style. Catiua was shocked at his forwardness, as if he was completely apathetic about societal rules or common manners. Despite her happiness at his return, she was also suitably annoyed. Fully prepared to scold him for his atrocious mannerisms, she was interrupted before she could speak.

"I apologize for my tardiness. I wanted to visit you earlier, but, alas, I've been afield and haven't had time to myself."

Much to her surprise, Catiua felt her irritation drain. His warm demeanor and soft words relaxed her; they were a clear contrast to everyone else she dealt with. It was nice to have someone be friendly to her and not just stiff and formal. She enjoyed his relaxed manner, even if she had seen that she could set him off quickly with a badly chosen remark. It would be best to treat him like Vyce, perhaps, and humor his ridiculous ideas, scolding him when necessary. She decided for a quiet approach, and to let him do the talking. As pleased as she was to see Oz, she was still cautious of his motives and wondered why he was risking Lanselot Tartaros' wrath.

"Hello, Sir Oz. It's a pleasure to see you again."

He motioned her forward and Catiua leaned in, curious. He spoke quietly, so that her guardians couldn't hear.

"I've some rumors of interest, Princess. I'm not sure if you're curious about the motions of the Resistance, but given that your horrible brother is in charge, I thought you'd like to hear them."

Catiua froze. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear Oz's rumors. She wanted to shake her head, but the Templar continued anyway, oblivious to Catiua's inner conflict.

"There's a woman he's recently allied himself with. What was her name? Ah, yes, I remember. Dame Ravness Loxaerion. Apparently she's a woman of some standing within the Galgastani insurgents. Rumor has it, that in order to gain favor with their young Lord and with the Galgastani commons, he's taken her as a lover!"

Catiua withdrew in horror. _That _woman? Denam had no only left her, but had tossed his principles aside. He would betray the very people he once fought proudly for to gain the favor of the masses. Catiua was appalled. Perhaps it was better that she left; now not only had he abandoned her, but he abandoned the very people he once fought for!

Sensing her anger, Oz gently patted her hand. Catiua forced her eyes closed, anger, frustration and sadness all threatening to burst through. She was pained on all sides. From one part of her, she was angry that Denam was selling himself as such, but another part of her, the one that was crying louder, was mad that she even cared what Denam did at all. After all, he had left her, why should she care about him?

"I was not expecting that news to be so distressing to you, Catiua." He was using her first name again. It sounded pleasant to her ears, not firm like when Tartaros addressed her. He sighed. "It's always been a problem of mine, you see, to speak before I think. Forgive this humble knight his weakness."

Catiua was not used to such respect towards her, many of the Templars were formal, but out of necessity and showed no respect in it. Oz's actions were submissive and gentle as if he truly loathed his weakness. She turned his words over and over in her head, thinking there to be some hidden meaning behind them, but couldn't find any.

"No, it's not your fault. It's that idiot Denam's! He's no brother of mine."

He removed his hand from hers forcefully and made a disapproving sound.

"Such intolerance. Despite what you might think of him, a brother will always love his sister."

"He is not my brother!" Catiua snapped.

"Denying it only hurts you! You're his elder, you helped build him into what he is. It falls onto you to take responsibility for his actions and fix the disaster he has caused." Oz's scolding was firm and angry.

"So I'm to let him dominate my life, even now? I've thrown him away, I'll have nothing to do with his foolish games of war and delusions of grandeur."

"You don't understand how the mind of a brother works. Perhaps in his own twisted way he believes that he's doing everything for you. He wants you to live in peace, even if it means sacrificing himself to do so."

"But what about what _I _want?"

"Did you not do what you want? You bowed to Lodis. What does it matter; you said it yourself, you've thrown him away. Your past with him means nothing. Whatever your relationship with him is now, you cannot deny that it is your influence that led him down this dark path."

Catiua had no response to that. Deny it all she liked, she had still been raised with him, no matter what foolish mistakes he had made. Catiua felt regret course through her. It was so frustrating, to go from being happy to see Oz, only to have her happiness shattered, ending up feeling sad and upset once he finally came. What if he didn't want to see her anymore? Seeming to realize what his words had done to her, Oz took her hand again, this time fully enclosing it with both of his. They were warm, comforting, and Catiua didn't try to pull away.

"There I go again. But you'll think on what I said, yes?"

Catiua didn't reply, but nodded softly. Oz released her hands and ran a hand down the side of her face, wiping away tears that Catiua had tried to hold back. At the soft, familiar touch Catiua finally released a small sob and hid her face in her arms, crying. Oz seemed to disapprove, and instead lifted her face up gently, so that he could look at her. Catiua bit her lip, and tried to look away, but Oz's hand on her chin kept her movement limited. Her sight was blurred, but she could see a smile on her companion's face. The nearness was frightening and she could feel his warm breath on her face as he finally released her.

"I must leave now; the High Commander will be displeased if he sees me with you."

Catiua made a sound to acknowledge him, but didn't move. Tears were streaming down her face now, and her Templar guardians were making a point to avoid looking at her. Her books all but forgotten, Catiua remained staring towards the doorway until Lanselot Tartaros came and retrieved her.

* * *

><p>Catiua was depressed. She had broken down after leaving Denam, but she was beyond that. Catiua's state of depression demanded her do nothing more than to stay in bed and cry. Tartaros, of course, would have nothing of the sort and ordered she get up and get dressed. Catiua knew he was firm with her for a reason, and she knew she would thank him later, but it was difficult finding the motivation to do anything. Catiua even declined going out to practice, instead opting to stay in the small room near Tartaros' office that she usually loathed. She would simply sit in the chair, eyes downcast, with nothing but her own mistakes filling her mind.<p>

One morning, a few days after her last meeting with Oz, another strange event occurred. It was as if Oz had been the catalyst for change in her life, and even though not all of it was pleasant, Catiua almost welcomed her depression. On this day, as she was eating breakfast she received a visitor.

The visitor was a woman Catiua was unfamiliar with. Her armor marked her as a Dark Knight of rank and Catiua offhandedly wondered if the woman was going to replace Tartaros for the day. She greeted the woman, but didn't get up to welcome her, or offer her a seat. The woman seemed to disapprove of Catiua's actions immensely and instead chose to sit directly across from her without permission, a frown on her features. The woman wasted no time in speaking, and Catiua found herself only able to nod.

"So you are the Princess. I am Ozma, your Highness. You know my brother, Oz." The tone of her last comment was dry and almost annoyed. At the mention of Oz, Catiua looked up; there was a resemblance, not only in coloring, but in facial structure and demeanor. Oz had mentioned having a sister, but Catiua hadn't been sure what to expect from her. It certainly wasn't a woman such as this. Catiua mumbled in response about it being a pleasure to meet Ozma, she was sure, but her words came out garbled and only partially understandable. Ozma didn't seem to care.

"Princess, I've no time to deal with formalities and this is not an informal chat. Instead I come with a warning: Stay away from Oz."

Catiua looked up immediately, suddenly very angered. So this woman came here because she was jealous, was that it? Perhaps Oz was giving Catiua more attention than Ozma and the elder woman was jealous. Catiua glared as she replied, she had no intention of playing the other woman's games.

"And so the jealous sister comes to stop the young woman's advances on her brother? I assure you, Dame Ozma, that there is nothing between your brother and I."

The woman's expression was unreadable, but there seemed to be some sadness to her. That was certainly not the reaction Catiua had been expecting.

"Perhaps not to you, perhaps even not yet, but Oz wants you. I do not mean as a lover, or as a friend, as you might see him. He is interested in neither. He is using you as a source of amusement to fulfill his twisted fantasies. You are not to be touched, so he seeks to have you even more."

Catiua sighed and stood up, turning away from Ozma. The elder woman was grating her. Did she truly believe that? Catiua thought the whole situation was ridiculous, Oz had shown her nothing but kindness, even if he was a bit blunt and did not always think his words through.

"I still sense jealously. I assure you, I've no intention of taking your brother from you. Now please, leave me in peace."

Ozma stood up, recognizing her dismissal, but as she walked to the door, she turned back. The woman didn't seem annoyed, instead simply sad. Her words were tinged with an odd mixture of venom and regret.

"Very well, Princess. You will reap what you sow. Have a pleasant day."

Despite the foreboding encounter, Catiua actually felt her mood slightly improve. Her mood was nowhere near happy, but she walked with her head slightly higher and, when offered the chance, she chose to go to the library. Catiua didn't understand why the meeting pleased her; perhaps it was simply because Oz's sister had acknowledged the friendship between she and Oz, even if she was trying to tear them apart.

Much to her displeasure, she did not see Oz again that day, or within the next two days. Catiua knew that she shouldn't expect him to come, but it still saddened her. She had been expecting him after the encounter with Ozma, but he only proved her wrong.

It was five days before she saw him again. While it was a much shorter time compared to the period between their first and second meetings, Catiua found that time passed much more slowly while waiting for him. When he first entered the room, dressed in his armor this time, Catiua mentally noted, she found all of her sadness slip away. Her depression was temporarily relieved as Oz sat down across from her. Even though it was rude for not asking to sit, Catiua was willing to forgive the action simply because he was the light in her dark depression.

"It pleases me to see that you're looking better, Catiua." He was back to calling her Catiua. It sounded so much nicer coming from him than Denam and she found herself getting used to it.

Catiua found herself feeling bold in her temporary relief. She wasn't sure if it was her loneliness, or if it was the conversation with Ozma a few days before. It was uncharacteristic of her to simply dance around an idea; it was time to admit to Oz what she felt, even if he already knew.

"I'm happy to see you Oz." Catiua suddenly found herself feeling like a little girl as she whispered his name without a title. "I was lonely without you."

He seemed a bit surprised at her admission and looked at her strangely. Oz's expression masked his thoughts and she was unable to tell what passed through his mind. Had she been too forward? Had she assumed too much in their friendship? After a moment she heard his laughter and she realized she was wringing her hands in nervousness. She immediately brought her hands down and folded them in her lap so that he couldn't see the movement.

"I'm pleased we no longer need to be formal with each other, Catiua. I'm told you've been upset. Care to tell me what's on your mind?"

Catiua was a bit surprised, but at the same time she knew she should not be. Servants spoke openly and word had likely spread through the castle that she was upset.

"I was, but I'm better for now." The answer did not satisfy the elder male, she could tell. He was staring at her with a firm look she hadn't seen from him before. She found his eyes to be intense and difficult to meet and his presence was overwhelming. She sighed and shivered, finally compelled to speak. "I've been thinking on your words since we last met. How I should take responsibility for my actions. I think of what I can change, and what mistakes I've made. I've been thinking about responsibility."

"Oh?" Was his simple reply as he took out his dagger. He lifted it in front of his face, staring at its clean surface before looking down to Catiua, eyeing her in a way she didn't quite understand. His gaze was unnerving and intense and Catiua reminded herself that though he was often kind to her, he was still well versed in the arts of war. As quickly as he took it out, Oz quickly flipped his dagger back into its sheath with a regretful sigh. The entire episode was confusing and Catiua didn't know what to make of it. She continued as his attention went back to her.

"I'm terrified of the responsibility that was suddenly thrust on my shoulders. I've been hiding from it. I let Tartaros lead me around as if he were Denam and I the loyal, passive Catiua that I hate. I want to think, and act for myself, but what it means to do that is terrifying. I don't even know who I am any longer, let alone who I will be a Scale from now. I pretend I'm not the Catiua who left Denam, but in my heart I know there is very little difference. My loyalty and my heart still do not belong to myself and-"

Catiua stopped. Despite his firm countenance just moments before, Oz was now sitting lazily back, an impassive, almost bored expression on his face. He seemed to be examining his armor, wiping at his glove. Catiua fumed with annoyance and glared at Oz for his disrespect. He would force her to speak such things and then pay no attention to her words? She finally snapped, standing up and leaning over the table.

"Stop that! You force me to speak of my worries and then you refuse to listen! Do you mock me?"

This brought a smile to his face, one of the brightest she'd seen from him. It was a bit disorienting

"Yes, perfect." he seemed to murmur to himself. "You'd do well to anger more often, Catiua, it brings out your better traits. Besides, is your mind not off your problems, now? A bit of rage can do wonders to relieve tension."

Catiua breathed heavily in anger, but realized that he was right. It did feel good to speak of her problems and to let her worries out. Her depression and doubt would not be gone so easily, but she felt as if a large burden was lifted from her shoulders simply because she was willing to accept what her problems were instead of denying them and forcing them into a dark corner of her mind.

Oz went back to examining his glove, rubbing at it with a small cloth as if trying to remove a blemish, when he asked his next question.

"And what of your brother? Have you decided how you feel about him?"

Catiua's release was short lived as Oz's comment provoked the rest of the problems she had been trying to avoid facing. Fear, anger, uncertainty, feelings of incompetence and weakness, and, most of all, loneliness flooded through her, and this was the true source of her depression. The other problems plagued her constantly, but her relationship with Denam was tearing her apart, even now.

When Oz came to visit, Catiua felt as if she was climbing a mountain. Her excitement would peak, feeling happy and even relieved, only to have her mood shattered just a moment later and fall down into the very abyss she just crawled from. Catiua wondered if Oz knew what he was doing to her; she doubted it, since he just asked so gently, as if he was worried about her.

"No."

"So you've been avoiding the subject. No wonder you're so upset. The sooner you get over your ridiculous obsession with him, the better you'll be."

Oz spoke with an annoyed tone that Catiua was shocked at hearing from him. She didn't know how to respond, not only to his tone, but his words. After a few seconds of silence, she decided to speak the truth. If she wanted Oz to be her friend, she could not hide from him.

"It's as you say, Oz. I cannot pretend my relationship with him is nonexistent." Oz nodded, his body language subtly encouraging her. Catiua continued. "I cannot change what has been done. I am Versalia now, no matter how much I pretend to be Catiua. I should, as you recommended, put the past behind me."

It was easier said than done and both of them knew it. She had no idea where to begin, but fortunately she was interrupted almost immediately by Oz changing once again changing the subject.

"Ozma spoke to you."

Catiua wasn't sure how to approach that statement, given Oz's temper and love for his sister, but Oz's comment was not a question; it was a command. He wanted to know what their discussion had been about and would not tolerate anything less. How odd, this man was, changing the subject right when Catiua felt she was getting a handle on her problems!

"She said she was your sister." Oz nodded. "I'm not sure what to make of our encounter."

"That's not what I want to know." His tone was harsh and clipped, and Catiua was surprised at how upfront he was about his annoyance. In some ways it was a relief, the men she had grown up with had always been so impassive and hesitant to show their emotions. That Oz took no issue in showing his anger was oddly relieving to her, even though she was a bit offended at his tone.

"It was an odd encounter; she didn't want me to speak with you anymore. Then she spouted some nonsense about you not wanting to be my friend." Catiua's face colored in embarrassment, but remembered her determination to speak her mind more often. "That's. . .not true, is it?"

Oz was silent. "I don't know what my sister intended with your conversation, Catiua. She is not the jealous type" Oz seemed to find something amusing about this comment and his shoulders shook in silent mirth. "But yes, I do consider you a friend Catiua. Even though our meetings are scarce due to circumstance, I enjoy our short time together."

Catiua's mood soared again at his words. Throwing all caution in the wind, Catiua declared stubbornly.

"We should meet more often."

Oz's eyes widened slightly and then a frown crossed his features.

"I don't think that's wise, Catiua."

"I don't care. I will speak with Tartaros if I must."

Oz released a long sigh. His expression still held a frown in it. Finally he chose to get up, sliding his seat into the table. But he kept his eyes on hers as he spoke.

"You know I would love to spend more time with you, but the High Champion's punishments are. . .unpleasant."

Catiua felt a surge of anger. Not at Oz, or even Tartaros, but at herself. She was being selfish again and this time it had been so obvious! But her anger led to determination; she would not make the same mistake again.

"I understand, Oz. I'm sorry, I was thinking only of myself again."

This response seemed to surprise Oz. He didn't give her the warm smile she was expecting and felt her mood slip a bit. Despite Oz's subdued reaction, Catiua told herself that would speak to Tartaros; Catiua was her own woman, she wouldn't allow him to carry her around on a leash. If she wanted to see Oz, she bloody well was going to!

Oz finally spoke again, his words slow, deliberate, and cautious. Catiua wasn't sure what provoked that response, for she had thought Oz would be pleased.

"You're a good girl, Catiua. I hope you get better soon; you're much more beautiful with life in your eyes. Now, if you'll excuse me?"

Catiua nodded in dismissal. Beautiful? Where had that come from? Catiua frowned externally, but internally her mood was pleasant. Oz's presence had an odd effect on her. It felt as if her emotions were freed from their bonds, but she was also more confused than ever. To have felt something other than depressing monotony and darkness was a relief, but her anger and desperation were deeper than ever before. Despite throwing her into the abyss, Oz's presence left her with warm feelings. It was not like the firm companionship and respect of Denam and Tartaros, or the fond-annoyance for Vyce, but something she didn't quite understand.

In the silence of the library, Catiua wondered if Oz knew how their meetings tore her apart.

* * *

><p>Her depression was slowly lifting. It was not from coming to a realization of what she was hiding, or even facing her problems that was returning her to normal. Catiua had found a meaning to her life, even if small, beyond being a martyr and figurehead for her people. Her meaning was not nearly so grand as saving lives; it was small and insignificant but it gave her the will to continue on when before all she had wanted to do was sulk. Catiua lived to feel warmth inside her heart, and to smile. She hadn't smiled since before Golyat had been sacked, not truly, and she wanted the light to return to her life.<p>

Oz had been the catalyst to her realization. She'd been hiding her sadness for so long that she'd forgotten what warmth felt like. Oz's comment about her being happy and "alive" made Catiua realize just what she had been missing for the last year. She had wanted to thank him immediately upon the realization, but Oz hadn't come to see her and she hadn't had the chance. Despite missing Oz, Catiua was fine with being alone for the first time since coming to the Dark Knights. Their last encounter had left Catiua with an odd confusion that she was still trying to clear up in her mind. She had spent hours trying to decipher the meaning of his words.

Finally at a loss, Catiua had gone to Tartaros, asking for a meeting with Oz. Tartaros had given her the strangest look she had seen from him before flatly declining. Catiua had even tried to allow him meetings with her; at that point Tartaros had actually called her foolish and ordered her escorted from the room. The whole scenario had made her extremely angry and she had refused to speak with Tartaros when he next came to visit her, instead holding her head high and walking confidently ahead of him, pretending he didn't exist.

As Tartaros would be no help, she had turned to the servants again. Unfortunately, her "companions" would not allow her to wander too far without them, so she had to avoid questioning too loudly or too openly. If Tartaros knew what she was trying to do, he likely wouldn't allow her out of her room. After what seemed to be hours of bickering, her guardians finally relented, allowing Catiua to stop along the hallways and ask servants she was unfamiliar with about Oz.

A dirty young woman who was cleaning a mess on the floors told Catiua that Oz hadn't gone afield for some time, and he seemed frustrated at being restricted to Phidoch. This hit Catiua as odd; if Oz was in Phidoch, why wouldn't he come to see her? She scolded herself for her selfishness as the thought immediately crossed her mind, reminding herself that Oz's life didn't revolve around her and that he was taking great risks in simply coming to see her. Catiua thanked the woman and moved on.

A serving girl in the dining areas told Catiua that Oz only came down to eat in the dining room when he wanted to speak with Dame Ozma. Apparently, Dame Ozma always ate with the Dark Knight Balxephon. Catiua knew Balxephon well enough, for he was usually planning with Tartaros. He was distant, but respectful.

It occurred to Catiua then, that perhaps asking about Ozma as well could lead to information about Oz. Speaking to the next servant she encountered, or rather one of the Lodissian slaves, Catiua asked about both Oz and Ozma. The slave spoke nothing but nonsense, but Catiua was horrified when he mentioned Ozma's preferred bathing times. She had glared and the man's implication and in turn he looked down nervously before finally whispering "Oz likes to spend a lot of time with his sister at night." before fleeing Catiua's presence with a bow.

Catiua wasn't sure what to make of the statement. The slave was obviously enamored by Ozma, who if she was anything like Catiua, would hang him off parapets if she knew of his actions, but she the latter statement seemed a bit odd. From her own experience, Catiua had stopped common late-night visits to Denam around the time his voice broke. While Catiua didn't doubt that Oz and Ozma were close given Ozma's harsh reaction to Catiua's friendship with Oz, something seemed off. Questioning the next servant, Catiua asked who commonly served Oz. The servant had been cautious with her answer, but gave Catiua an answer, and Catiua had generously tipped the servant for such useful information.

It took two hours to finally find the slave she was looking for. The woman was beautiful, and very young, probably two or three years younger than Catiua herself. Catiua politely questioned her about Oz. At his name, she stilled and turned pale; it was an odd reaction, but not an unfamiliar one. One of the other lovely slave girls had been terrified at the very mention of Oz's name. Catiua had been intimidated by the Knight Commanders when she first arrived as well, so perhaps it was nervousness about that? After a few seconds the girl recovered and murmured that she did indeed work for Sir Oz, and that he was a good man. While Catiua didn't necessarily disagree, for Oz was, indeed, very good to her, she declared that it wasn't the answer she was looking for. She pressed the servant for the location of Oz's room and if it was true that Oz often spent the evening with Ozma. The first question the woman answered eagerly, as if she didn't like speaking on the subject and wanted to tell Catiua simply to stop her questioning. The second question caused the slave to hesitate, but Catiua pressed. Finally relenting the girl motioned Catiua close. Leaning in on her, the girl was shaking as she whispered. "Sir Oz and Dame Ozma are close. Not just like brother and sister, but closer." The girl squeaked at that revelation and quickly fled from Catiua before Catiua could say a word of thanks for the information.

Closer than brother and sister? What could she-? Her thought was interrupted by the revelation of what the slave had meant. Certainly Oz wouldn't? But Catiua stopped herself. She was jumping to conclusions. The girl was a simple slave after all, and she served only Oz. How would she know what went on with Ozma? For that matter, she could be lying to Catiua or simply spreading rumors she heard secondhand. It would be best to make her own judgment on the subject rather than immediately judge him off of a rumor.

It was at that point an odd part of Catiua's brain surfaced. She'd only felt it once or twice before, but it made her blush and look towards the wall. Her mind was telling her that when Catiua had been young she had felt the same way about her brother and that it would be hypocritical to immediately attack Oz if he lusted after his sister. Catiua denied the thought, but her mind went on, ignoring the more rational pleas to stop. Perhaps he enjoys strong women? After all, Ozma was very overbearing and there's no doubt she would be in control of the relationship. That he was willing. . .Catiua didn't know what to think. She wasn't nearly as enraged as she should have been. Quite the opposite, Catiua was quite curious about the relationship between the two. Catiua silently compared her relationship with Denam to Ozma's relationship with Oz and she could see herself acting similarly to the other woman. After all, Catiua reminded herself, she had been enraged when she heard the rumor of Ravness and Denam.

Catiua stopped herself. Why had she compared Oz to Denam? She certainly didn't see Oz like Denam. The voice that had earlier been whispering of lust quietly seeped back to the recesses of her mind, but it was awakened now, not to be put to sleep again, constantly tinging her thoughts. But if Catiua didn't see Oz like Denam, or Vyce, what was he to her? She wanted him to be more than a friend, more than a brother. He made her smile and Catiua felt happiness when in his presence. He had given her a new direction in life. In some ways, Oz was everything that Catiua wanted. Another part of her mind told her that a relationship wouldn't be possible due to him being Lodissian and she only being Tartaros's tool. Catiua paid little attention to the the implications of the latter comment, focusing more on her own wording: 'Relationship.' Yes, she liked that.

That secret voice at the back of Catiua's mind was acting up again, and before Catiua could push it back down it whispered that she wanted to see the difference between Lodissian men and the Walister boys she had grown up with. At that thought she had let out of a groan of frustration, horrified the image had even crossed her mind. Her guards who had been quiet and tolerant so far finally approached her and Catiua was forced back into reality from her twisted musings. She attempted to wave them off, but she could tell by their body language that they had enough of her nonsense for the day. It didn't matter, Catiua had the information she needed, and followed them obediently back to her room. She didn't even complain about not being allowed into the library.

Catiua sat silently, conflicted about how to go about dealing with the revelation that she wanted to pursue the elder male. How would he react? Would he reject her? Was it even appropriate for a woman to pursue a man? What would she do if he accepted her? Catiua was still not allowed to go where she pleased and their meetings would have to remain a secret. Not to mention he would go back to Lodis when his duty in Valeria was complete. Different parts of her mind were constantly conflicted, arguing both for and against a relationship. The recently awakened part of her told her to go see Oz right now, there's no point in wasting time. A more cynical part whispered that courting Oz would only lead to heartbreak. Catiua's rational side told her it was best to leave things as they were and admire from the distance. Unfortunately, Catiua listened to none of these voices and went with what her heart was telling her: She would pursue him, but slowly and steadily. Oz visited her rarely, but when she next saw him she would tell him how she felt.

Happy with her conclusion, Catiua finished the night feeling satisfied with herself. Dinner tasted better than it had in ages and she had a small smile on her features. Her bath was refreshing and Catiua actually felt clean. It felt as if "grime" had been lifted from her and her mind and body were clear and clean. Catiua's mind was clear, as if she had opened a window to spring after a long, cold winter. There was still a chill in the air and the rain still fell, but her mind held promises of a brighter future. A small smile remained as she dropped off into slumber.

It was dark when she awoke. She usually slept through the night, so she was alarmed at the new occurrence. She gently slid out of bed and wandered around the room, unsure of what to make of her alertness. The shadows covered the room and it was difficult to see anything in the corners and everything beyond her door was completely obscured; the moon shed very little light outside of the small hole that was her window. Sighing, she walked over to the window, trying to get a better view. She could see the battlements and a few fires along them, but the night was dark and foggy, so there was little of interest.

Before she could move back to bed, she felt herself stopped by arms around her waist. She froze, nerves on edge as she found herself encircled in a warm body. There was no question on who it was, and he brought his face down beside hers, whispering gently in her ear:

"Sister."

"Oz."

His tone sent shivers through her and heat coursed through her body. Oz nuzzled against her for a moment before turning her around and pushing her against the wall. He pushed her hair back out of her face and brought her close. She could feel his breath on her throat and clutched at him, urging him forward. He was touchy, running his hands down her back and thighs, his lips moving over her chest and collarbone and face before finally meeting her eyes, lips close to hers, close but not quite touching. They stared at each other for a few moments, his warm eyes expressive and full of emotion.

"I've missed you, sister. I've been waiting for a chance to meet you alone."

"I wanted to see you, as well."

Her was voice was different; it was confident, and lacked any of the shyness she should be feeling. She pressed herself against him, making sure he knew full well exactly what she wanted. She pushed her hips into his forcefully, letting Oz know he wasn't moving nearly fast enough. Sliding her arms around his waist, she lifting up his nightshirt up from the back; at her determination, Oz finally relented slightly helping her remove the article. Oz moved slowly, running his hands down her arms; but she would not have it. For as much as he wanted to nuzzle and touch, she wanted him now. She would not tolerate his games tonight, and her hands immediately found their way to his nightpants, forcing them down to his knees. Oz kicked them off and pulled her away from the wall so that he could pull her nightshift off. She discarded it immediately, and clutched at Oz as he pushed her back against the wall, tongue forced into her mouth in desire.

She wanted nothing more than to have Oz at her mercy to do whatever she pleased with him, but the damn nightclothes were in the way. She made a displeased hiss against his mouth and lowered her hands back down to remove both of their underwear. Finally free, a smile crossed her features and she grabbed his aroused penis in her hand, giving it only a few small strokes before moving away from the wall. Oz followed her lead, and she turned them both around, forcing him against the wall in her place, knee between his legs and hips pressed against his, feeling his erection but not allowing either of them to do anything about it.

"Much better." she whispered against him and ran her hands up his chest, over his shoulders and through his hair. Oz was breathing heavily under her, his own hands running through her hair and down her back, stopping at her hips. He tried to push her onto him, but she swatted him away. She would do this how and when she pleased. Her own breath ragged and body warm from lust, she finally relented and stopped pressing, instead guiding him into her. Her arousal had lubricated her vagina, making it easy for Oz's penis to slide into her.

Guiding his thrusts, she let herself be bounced slightly. Oz let out a soft pleasant sound, but she had no intention of allowing him to finish before she had her way with him. She forced his speed to match her own desire; she'd been waiting for this far too long to have him finish before she allowed him to. His fast thrusts forced her up and down, breasts bouncing against Oz's chest; sweat slicked them both, making it difficult to grasp at each other. She held onto Oz's head by his hair and curled one of her legs around his. His slick penis pushing into her made her feel like her body was ready to explode, and she leaned her head back in pleasure, letting the feel of Oz overwhelm her.

"Yes, Oz, like that. . . .Ah!"

Catiua's eyes opened as she gasped the words aloud. It had only been a dream, but her body was burning in the same way it had been as Oz had pushed inside her. Without thinking, and before she could decide to do otherwise, Catiua leaned her head back and put her hand down her undergarments to her warm, throbbing vagina. She was inexperienced in masturbation, but her body demanded release from her passion. The wetness was unfamiliar to her, and she wasn't sure where to touch. It was not hard to find the right area, and she experimented a bit, trying to find the way that pleased her most. Her experimenting didn't last longer than a minute as she pressed hard into her clitoris, body shaking from pleasure. Her hips were moving forward as if meeting Oz's invisible thrusts and Catiua imagined it was he who was touching her. Her vagina contracted and Catiua felt a warm tingling envelop her entire lower region. Her breath was deep, and her mouth released a quiet gasp in pleasure when her back arched in orgasm.

Catiua quickly removed a hand from her undergarments and didn't move. Her breath slowly returned to normal and she opened her eyes once again. The room was dark, even though some part of her was horrified that she had made some of those noises aloud. She'd never experienced a dream like that before, but Catiua couldn't say it was entirely unwelcome. From her lessons she knew that it dreams like the one she had were relatively common for young boys, but women could also experience them when they lusted after someone.

Catiua sighed, knowing the rational parts of her mind would not win this battle. She wanted, no, she _needed _Oz. Her body desired him, imagining what he would feel like when nude with her, and her heart cried out for him, as he gave her confidence, happiness, and now release.

Her mind made up, Catiua determined she could no longer deny what she had felt. Catiua fell back to sleep a few moments later, imagining herself in Oz's arms as she slept.

* * *

><p>Catiua's determination eroded by the time she awoke. She felt a bit of humiliation now that her lust had subsided, but her embarrassment wasn't as overwhelming as it had been when she had first had such thoughts. Catiua knew she wanted Oz, despite all of the factors against her. There was no point in pretending otherwise any longer.<p>

She barely paid attention to her servants as they dressed her and brought her breakfast. She ate with ferocity, and when Tartaros came in soon after she pled illness and needed to stay in her room all day. Tartaros had been wary at first, but Catiua had been firm. Tartaros seemed to respect the firm decisiveness in Catiua's tone, and finally relented, allowing her time to herself for the day.

Catiua's day was not productive. Her mind constantly looked for excuses and reasons to stay away from Oz or to go to him. At one point she had been so fed up that she decided to stop thinking about it all together. To her dismay, trying to avoid thinking about Oz only made the subject harder to avoid. Catiua felt like tearing her hair out and finally decided on simply practicing her magic. She was distracted at first, but soon the familiar patterns and increasing need for concentration helped her focus.

By the time she finished, Catiua felt refreshed, confident, and was no longer conflicted. The answer to her dilemma was obvious; her apprehension slipped away as she finally reached her conclusion:

Tonight she would visit Oz and tell him how she felt.

Catiua had never been one to hide from her own feelings and she would not start now. As soon as she came to the resolution, Catiua started worrying again. How would she get to him? What would she say? What if he wasn't in his room? What if Ozma was there as well? The last thought brought on an all too familiar blush and Catiua doubted she would ever be able to look at Ozma the same way again after her dream. She finally sighed and determined there was no point to agonizing over something she couldn't change. If events didn't turn out the way she planned, Catiua could always come back at a later time.

After what felt like an eternity of worrying, the servants finally brought dinner to Catiua. She picked at her food in nervousness, not really tasting anything, eating only because she knew she needed the energy. When she finished, she immediately told the servants to leave her and that she would prepare herself for bed. Instead of dressing herself in her nightclothes, Catiua removed her hat and went over to her vanity to brush her hair. She wasn't sure what Oz liked in women, and tried putting her hair into different styles, but eventually just released it and let it flow down. After all, if she had her way, Oz would be taking her hair down anyway. At the bold thought, Catiua found herself blushing, but at the same time a part of her wanted to giggle. She tried for something simpler, like pushing it back like Dame Ozma's, but she didn't have the face for it and it looked terrible. She eventually just went with what she wore normally, but without her hat.

She paced nervously; the only sound reaching her ears was the soft tapping of her boots on the floor and her own heartbeats from nervousness. Whenever she felt like she was going to explode, she remembered how Oz's smiling face looked and her heart once again melted.

It was late when she decided to sneak out. The idea of sneaking was ridiculous in itself, a Princess, having to use stealth in her own country! She moved down the halls silently, going to the location the servant had told her. The Commanders had rooms in a well-guarded wing, but Catiua had been able to talk her way past the guards, saying she needed to speak with Tartaros about something very important. The Templars had been hesitant, but finally allowed her to pass.

Catiua found the door to Oz's room with ease, silently hoping the slave girl had not lied to her. She raised her hand to knock but stopped, suddenly very nervous. She unintentionally squirmed and clenched her hands together uncomfortably. She couldn't back down now, but the immediate pressure of what she was doing hit her hard, making it feel like the wind was knocked from her. She knew if she continued agonizing over it she would turn away and run, so before she could muse more on the subject, she gently knocked. After a few moments of no response, she knocked again, harder this time. To her please, the second knock gave her a reaction; she could hear a voice from inside, likely Oz, but couldn't hear what he was saying.

The door flew open and an angry Oz appeared from inside, with a harsh hiss of "What!" Catiua took a step back at the tone and Oz's gaze fell onto her. She looked down in embarrassment and Oz continued, his voice in a tone far more familiar to Catiua ". . .do you need?"

Before she could think to do otherwise, Catiua walked right into partially open door beside the baffled Oz and stood in the middle of the guestroom. She looked around his sitting area and found nothing worth noting that was any different from her own room, and wondered why the servants were making such a big fuss about him.

She turned back toward him as she heard him close the door and kept her eyes to the ground. This was much harder than she thought. She didn't know where to begin. She certainly couldn't just come out and say "I want you, Oz." No, that wouldn't do at all. But she also knew that some men did not understand more subtle gestures, such as "Mayhap we could have a private chat?" No, that wouldn't work either. Perhaps a metaphor? Catiua thought back to her recent time in the Resistance; those men were always using strange metaphors for sex and it had taken Catiua some time before she understood why Denam would blush at many of their comments.

Fortunately, Oz spoke first.

"This is. . .ah. . .a pleasant surprise." Oz's tone was gentle, even welcoming, but his body spoke a different language entirely. He was uncomfortable with Catiua in his space, she could tell, and was feeling hostile. Noting Oz's discomfort, Catiua knew there was no backing down; she had but one chance to do this right. Catiua looked up with a small smile on her face hoping to lighten his mood.

"I was lonely; I came to you for companionship." Catiua frowned internally; that hadn't been what she had meant to say. Oz seemed cautious as well. The situation was increasingly uncomfortable and the silence felt as if it could tear Catiua apart.

"Companionship." Oz replied flatly, his statement bordering on annoyed. Catiua was beginning to wonder if she had made the wrong choice to pursue him and had crossed some unknown cultural barrier. "You seem to be looking well, Catiua. You look like a clear sky after a harsh storm; it seems you've solved your problems?"

While Catiua was flattered at the compliment, she wasn't here to talk about her previous depression; in truth, she wasn't quite sure why Oz was mentioning it at all, for it certainly had nothing to do with her appearance tonight. Catiua decided to ignore his comment and try something a bit blunt, as Oz didn't understand her hints. She took a step forward; Oz took one back. Catiua frowned, and took another forward as she spoke:

"I enjoy your company Oz, I was hoping to get to know you a bit more intimately."

Oz's frown only deepened at the comment, but she could also sense some confusion.

"I don't understand, Catiua. While I am pleased to know you think so highly of me, is there really a point to visiting me this late at night?"

Catiua felt like screaming. She suddenly felt very sorry for Ozma; despite not knowing or even liking the other woman, she had no idea how Ozma could deal with Oz's obliviousness. Catiua decided to approach him differently.

"I'm hungry and there's only one thing that I want."

To Catiua's surprise, after a small delay, Oz started laughing. It was a dark laugh, not the pleasant one she was used to.

"Princess, I don't think you and I think of the same meal when you say 'hungry.' I assure you, our palates vary quite drastically." The look in his eyes was absolutely predatory, and while Catiua knew the look should terrify her, she found it only took her breath away and brought warmth coursing through her body. "But if you'd like, I can order a servant to get food for you."

Catiua sighed and shook her head. Was he playing with her? Catiua was befuddled at his response. This wasn't how the stories went! Of course, the stories usually had the men trying to seduce the women, not the other way around, so Catiua supposed they weren't the best reference for romantic endeavors.

"You're the only thing that can sate my appetite!" Catiua couldn't believe what she had just said. She covered her face with her hands and looked away. Oz didn't reply, but in shock Catiua quickly found herself in his arms, but not in the way she intended; his dagger was against her throat, one hand holding the back of her neck and the other holding back her arms to stop her from struggling.

"After all I've done, you seek to threaten me?" Oz actually paused at this seemingly contemplating, before he continued. "Well, actually that's not so surprising. What is, however, is that you come to my room in the middle of the night and seek to play my own game? I will not have it! Explain yourself, girl!" His voice was low and dangerous and Catiua suddenly felt very much like a small child. She wasn't sure what she had said wrong, but Oz was furious.

Catiua did not reply and Oz pressed the dagger firmly into her neck, demanding: "Answer me! Why are you here?" She shivered in response but choked out:

"I want you."

This only caused Oz to hiss again, and he pushed her to the floor. He stood over her menacingly and put his boot over her neck. Catiua did her best not to struggle, knowing it would likely infuriate Oz more.

"I admit, I cannot permanently damage you, but I've not wanted to do so more than I do right now. You speak in riddles, girl." She was beginning to drastically regret coming here; Oz obviously did not like others in his personal space and Catiua was outright invading. Catiua would just have to force him to accept her! Finally deciding to be as blunt as possibly she very openly stared at the area between his legs and pointed as well, saying with confidence that she didn't feel:

"I lust for you."

After what seemed like an eternity, Oz finally removed his foot, allowing Catiua to get off the floor. He looked disquieted, possibly even upset. It was a look she remembered young Denam having when he was confused as to why things weren't going his way. His dagger remained in his hand, but he took a few steps back allowing Catiua to stand.

"Is this some twisted joke?" He finally bit out, body in a defensive position.

Catiua was confused at the comment. She gave Oz his space and took a step back. She rubbed her throat softly and coughed from the previous pressure. "No." She murmured. "You've brought light back into my life. There's no one I would rather be with."

A loud choking sound came from Oz and he physically withdrew. He seemed to be thinking about something and after a moments hesitation he finally threw his dagger harshly into the ground with a loud, angry "Argh!" before starting to pace. He was murmuring to himself now, and Catiua couldn't make much of it out. She heard clips that sounded like "ridiculous" and "best laid plans" and "game. Sister!' "not supposed. . .happy". Catiua watched him as he paced and finally did what she'd been so frightened to do earlier: she let her eyes roam his body. His nightclothes were large and baggy, but she could tell he was well toned. His hair wasn't pushed back like it normally was, instead it looked a mess and Catiua found it rather charming, as it fit his flustered appearance.

Catiua sighed. Oz was being ridiculous. She was used to boys who acted like this, but that a grown man would act in this manner seemed utterly nonsensical. She stalked over to him loudly and grasped him, putting her arms around him before he could move. He was stiff and was again radiating malice, but Catiua ignored it. She could hardly believe her boldness, but she lowered her hand down his back and to his hips, finally reaching his penis, which she grasped gently as she whispered "I don't want to wait anymore."

Oz shivered in response before very gently removing her hand.

"I don't think you know what you're asking for."

Catiua finally snapped.

"I know exactly what I'm asking for and I'm not leaving until I have it!"

Her tone and confidence seemed to surprise Oz, and his reaction was unexpected. It brought a small smile to his face as he looked down on her.

"You're insane. Absolutely mad! All of you Valerians are!. But. . .I admit to being intrigued by your proposition. Unfortunately, er, you see. . ." Oz trailed off, hesitating. Despite the relative discomfort of his last sentence, Oz seemed to be a bit pleased with himself again. He was no longer cursing and he had a look in his eyes that she'd compare to a starving man who had just been given a large steak and didn't want it to go to waste. She wasn't sure how she liked the idea of Oz wanting to consume her, at least until she paired it up with sex. Then she decided that being consumed was very much what she wanted to happen, preferably as soon as possible.

They remained stationary and Catiua was getting impatient. She looked pointedly in the direction of Oz's room, but Oz was still. Catiua released Oz's waist and tried to pull his arm towards his room. He didn't move, instead gently removing himself from her grasp and opting to pick up the dagger he had tossed in frustration. He looked it over for an extended period before finally addressing Catiua.

"I've a problem."

Catiua frowned. "Certainly you're not backing out now?"

"No. Perhaps could make things a bit more interesting?" He played with the dagger, rotating it between his fingers and bringing it up to his face, examining his reflection.

Catiua's confusion only deepened. "If it pleases you." She replied cautiously.

Oz breathed a dark chuckle that sent shivers of fear and desire down through Catiua. "It will please me very much."

With a speed she wasn't expecting, Oz rushed over and grasped her and in less than a second Catiua found herself pushed to the ground again, Oz's body on top of hers. He held her to the ground with one arm, knee in between her legs, pressing then open slightly, and leaning over her, hand on the floor by her face. Catiua was very surprised; this wasn't how things were supposed to happen! They were supposed to be in bed, and it definitely wasn't supposed to be so forceful.

Oz was looking her up and down.

"This certainly won't do at all. Flicking his dagger up, Catiua was shocked when he literally cut her dress down the middle, all the way down. As if bored, he spread it apart exposing her nightshift, but her dress was still attached at her neck. He cut her undergarments next, and Catiua let out a soft cry as the dagger bit into the flesh between her breasts. The sharp pain was enough to make her ignore the cool air on her breasts and abdomen, but it didn't dull the warmth that came from having Oz on top of her, ready to do what he pleased. The cut burned a bit and Oz looked down at it, murmuring to himself, as if interested. Catiua didn't understand him at all sometimes.

Oz continued downward, gently slicing through her slip at her hips. Near the bottom, Catiua felt another sharp cut on her upper inner thigh. She hissed this time, forcing her legs together on instinct, which were unfortunately blocked by Oz's knee. She was breathing heavily from the shock of the pain and snapped:

"Watch what you're doing!"

"An honest mistake, my dear." But his tone was amused and Catiua doubted him very much.

Catiua squeaked as he reached her neck, not comfortable with a weapon that close to such an imperative part of her body, especially considering his past "mistakes." Unfortunately for Catiua, her fear was proven right; as Oz very gently slid his dagger through her dress at her neck, he also broke the skin of her throat, causing Catiua to attempt to physically withdraw from him and force him off. Oz wasn't moving however, instead leaning close to her face, as he whispered:

"Alas, I admit, that was no mistake."

Catiua tried to scream at him, but Oz put a hand over her mouth, anticipating the reaction. He gently murmured "shhhh" to her and cut into her neck again, gentle slices in what seemed to be to Catiua just random directions. She felt ill, like she wanted to vomit and squirmed in attempt to get out of Oz's grasp. Oz refused to budge, instead he gently removed his knee from between her legs and sat down on her lower abdomen.

"Yes, Catiua, this is much better." He paused. "Don't fear, I've no intention of harming you. Are you unfamiliar with sex?" Catiua nodded uncomfortably, smearing the gentle seep of blood on her neck. Oz sighed, and shrugged, as if everything finally made sense. "Of course! No wonder you're frightened. Don't worry dear, this is part of the intimacy. Surely young women speak of foreplay when gossiping on the corner?"

Catiua found herself blushing despite that. "All right. . ." She whispered hesitantly. She would let Oz lead, if he was experienced. He quickly removed his shirt, night pants, as well as his undergarments, showing his aroused penis. It didn't look like what she was expecting; in truth Catiua didn't know what to expect in the first place. He finished removing her clothes, tearing them off her arms, before he tilted his head to the side.

"I am going to show you some of the more delicate arts of pleasure, acts that are reserved for a relationship as intimate as ours. I must ask you to refrain from using your healing magic; they will ruin the experience."

Catiua was suddenly extremely curious, but also doubtful. She could admit she had very little experience on the subject other than what happens biologically: a man puts his penis into a woman's vagina, he pushes in and out of the woman, and the man ejaculates. She only knew the bare minimum about other bedtime activities, as she had very few female friends to speak to about them. A moment after the thought, Catiua's mind slowly wound itself over Oz's wording. "relationship!" Catiua almost squealed in glee despite the pain in or body from the cuts and the worry from his words about requiring healing magic. Her apprehension gone, Catiua smiled and nodded. If it would allow them to be closer, the Catiua would force herself to enjoy it, even if it was painful.

"No matter what we do, we need to be quiet. We certainly don't want anyone running in on us and interrupting." Oz murmured a bit more quietly this time as he pressed his erection into her. She squeaked at it as an uncomfortable, foreign pain that came with his presence. He body tingled and she felt her muscles contract as he pushed into her a few times.

Just as she thought she was getting used to it, Oz forced her head back putting his dagger again to her through, not gently for the small slices like before, but in a true threat. Catiua held back a screech of horror and shock, and Oz leaned down on her, softly licking the blood from her neck. She could smell his hair from this position; it smelled of rosemary, likely from a recent bath. It was an odd thing to note, when she felt so very vulnerable. She thought Oz was bluffing with the motion, but almost screamed in horror and pain when he slid his dagger deeper into her flesh.

She squirmed and kicked at him, trying to push him off of her, but his weight was greater than hers and Catiua's movement was limited from their intimate contact in both sexual regions and from her neck. Too fast of motion and he would slice through imperative veins and arteries, causing her to bleed to death. Both Catiua and Oz knew she was at his mercy, but that didn't mean she would let him kill her without fighting back. She tried to force his hands away from her neck, digging her short nails into his forearms, but they didn't budge. If anything, this only increased the intensity of Oz's pleasure and he was pushing harder into her now. Catiua's body was moving with his in pleasure, despite her mind begging her to stop and do everything she could to fight him.

She couldn't see anything other than the roof and, if she really tried, Oz's back and the top of Oz's head as he leaned down onto her. In a sense, it was calming, since even though she was terrified, it allowed her to enjoy the pleasure of his confident thrusts. She particularly found she liked it when he would do it more slowly, grinding around. Fast felt like a waste for both of them to finish too quickly and she was glad when Oz went more slowly, giving her time to enjoy the new sensations her body was experiencing. It was an odd feeling, Catiua decided, having a man inside of her. Her body welcomed him easily, lubricating for his motions, but it was also uncomfortable with his weight pressing her down. Part of her noted how odd his scrotum sounded as it hit against flesh when Oz was being more forceful. Her lower body was contracting now and Catiua was gasping unintentionally in pleasure, forcing Oz's knife even further into her shredded neck.

Much to her frustration, Oz slowed. She didn't understand, but Oz removed his dagger from her neck and sat up, away from her face and neck, in contrast to the close contact they'd just had. Catiua immediately covered her neck with her hands, horrified when they came away bloody. She tried to pick up the side of her sliced dress, but Oz offhandedly swatted her hand away. He moved himself out of her and she realized he was no longer aroused. Her entire body was pulsing and her chest was rising and falling heavily, and she felt nothing but her lack of fulfillment.

Oz seemed annoyed as well. He looked down on her neck, then over her body and sighed before turning away. He walked over to his water basin, dipped a towel in, and washed his hands and his body. Catiua, finally having the freedom to stop her bleeding, picked up the ruins that were once her clothes and dabbed at the cuts; despite her horror at the time, and how much pain just moving her neck was, she had to admit that Oz knew what he was doing with his dagger. Had he cut too far, he would have killed her, but he knew just the right place to cut without doing any permanent damage. It was terrifying, but in some ways it made sense. Despite his previously gentle demeanor, it was easy to forget that he was a Templar, and a commander no less!

It hurt to speak, but she was very confused.

"Oz, I don't understand."

Gazing over his form, Catiua forced herself to look at his face and she noticed that it was red. Was he blushing? Or was it anger? She couldn't tell, but Oz's jaw was clenched and he was having problems meeting her eyes. The only sound he made in response was an offhanded "Feh" that she didn't quite understand the meaning of. Catiua pushed more.

"Are you all right, Oz? Did I do something wrong?"

After a moment of hesitation Oz finally bit out "Yes." as he picked up his nightpants and undergarments, putting them back on. Catiua curled up, her body still warm from lust and she felt surprisingly dirty. Holding her dress primarily onto her neck, she waited for Oz to elaborate. It took him a few moments to do so "This is not how things were supposed to happen."

Catiua felt like crying. What was supposed to be a dream had turned into a nightmare. Not only had her evening gone awry, but neither she nor Oz had been able to satisfy themselves. She forced her tears aside and finally whispered "What can I do better, for next time?"

To her surprise, Oz didn't hesitate in his answer. "Scream. Beg, perhaps."

"This is no time for your ridiculous jests!"

"I do not jest. Next time, I am going to show you how to properly please a man, for this simply will not do."

Oz slowly walked into his room and Catiua could hear him rummaging about. She had no idea what he was doing, but Catiua also took that as her cue to leave. Unfortunately, Catiua had lacked the foresight to bring any extra clothes, and all of her clothes were bloody, shredded, or completely destroyed. Oz came back after a moment and tossed a robe onto the ground in front of her.

"Go back to your room, Catiua. We don't want anyone getting suspicious."

Catiua was conflicted. She had sworn off the healing arts, but she certainly couldn't be seen slinking through the halls, dripping blood everywhere. She was also worried the wounds on her neck might lead to some permanent scarring. The location of her wounds was questionable; it would give her people a bad view of her, showing a weakness she could not afford. She sighed, giving into her logic; it would be best for her to heal and she knew it. She couldn't allow anyone to know about their relationship and if it meant using her arts again to hide it, so be it. She held her hands over her neck and concentrated, focusing on the most painful locations first, before finally moving down her abdomen and thigh, which held shallower cuts. She managed an offhanded gaze at Oz, who was sitting down in his seat with a dark expression on his face, ignoring Catiua.

Sticky blood covered her body; she nonchalantly picked off some of the drier flecks as she put on the robe Oz had given her. Her still-wet blood seeped through the robe slightly, but it was conspicuous enough that unless she was in the light, no one would notice. Her neck was harder to hide. She picked up her dress again and split the remains in half, carefully wrapping it around her neck like a scarf. Catiua still had to make her way past the guards, after all, and their suspicion was the last thing she needed.

Picking herself up, she walked over to Oz, _was he moping?, _and kissed his cheek. He didn't move or even react. Sighing in response, Catiua turned away. There was simply no reasoning with men sometimes and Catiua knew it was better to leave him alone. As she approached the door, she turned and whispered, just loudly enough that she knew he heard:

"Good night."

* * *

><p>Catiua's life went back to "normal" after her night with Oz. Her depression eventually lifted and she found herself bored. Oz didn't come to visit her, and she had been worried about visiting him, so their relationship, if it could be called such, was at a standstill. Unfortunately for Catiua, her dreams had returned. They were becoming more frequent as time passed and Catiua found herself frustrated that she couldn't do anything about them except please herself. It was a temporary satisfaction; only Oz could truly give her what she wanted.<p>

Much to Catiua's surprise, a few days after her incident with Oz, Ozma came to visit again. In comparison to their treatment of Oz when Catiua first met him, the Templar guards were respectful to Ozma and had allowed her to be alone with Catiua. Catiua was worried and wasn't sure why the other woman was intruding on her time; Ozma's presence only signified that she knew exactly what was going on between Catiua and Oz.

The older woman was confident and dangerous and, unlike when she had visited Catiua before, she radiated with annoyance. Despite her dark mood, the elder retained her manners and bit out a sharp "May I?" pointing to the chair, and Catiua nodded. Ozma sat down with a grace that, despite the other woman's armor, Catiua was jealous of.

After Ozma sat down, she immediately looked up at Catiua and snapped with a venom she wasn't expecting, even if the words were as predictable as being wet after walking through the a river.

"Foolish child! Do you know what you've done?"

Catiua was expecting this and replied dryly: "I do. I've spent the night with the love of my life."

While Ozma's previous comment had been expected, to Catiua's her surprise, Ozma seemed outright distressed at the reply, putting her hands to her face and massaging her forehead.

"At what cost?"

"You're referring to my 'purity?'"

"Not at all." Ozma paused, musing on the subject for a moment. "Though I admit I'm surprised you did not save yourself for your brother."

Catiua withdrew from her in shock, unable to believe what she was hearing. "You speak out of turn!"

Ozma shook her head. "No, and deny it all you like, I did not misjudge you. I know what a young woman in love looks like. I was once in the same position as you." Ozma made a sad laugh then, and her eyes weakened for a moment before turning to the steel that was her usual mask. "I still am." The quiet sadness in her words could not be faked. Catiua found that she could not deny the woman now; as strong as she pretended to be, she was still the same as Catiua. Even across borders of sea and culture, the women were undeniably similar.

"So you're asking me to stay away from Oz?"

"While the better part of me says 'No,' I can also admit that, yes, I do loathe the attention he gives you." Catiua was surprised at the admission; she didn't think she would be able to say something similar. It seems that she had much to learn from her elder. Ozma continued "But that is not what I am here for today. I warned you before; Oz has no interest in a relationship with you. He takes you only for his own pleasure."

"Don't be ridiculous! You speak in circles, I wish to believe you, for I can tell you speak true about yourself, but Oz isn't like that. Your jealousy speaks for you, Dame Ozma."

Ozma let out a low hiss that was remarkably similar to her brother's. "No one knows Oz better than me; he's all I have now. I will not ask you to stay away from him, but Princess, no - Catiua, I see what he has done to you. The changes his games have brought are irreparable; however, I wish to save you from future pain. Please, for your own sanity, I beg you-"

"Sister!"

Catiua and Ozma both turned towards the voice and an angry looking Oz stalked into the library. His eyes were on Ozma and he was extremely angry. Ozma stood and met his glare.

"Oz. Is there a problem?"

"You know exactly what the problem is, sister. Leave now."

"So bold! Two Scales ago you would not have spoken to me such."

"My life does not revolve around you, sister."

Ozma was silent for a moment. She had no words for Oz's retort and, though she hid it well, Catiua could feel the sadness radiating from her. Catiua immediately empathized with the older woman, for the argument had been incredibly similar to one she had with Denam, where Denam had distanced himself from her. Catiua almost wanted to reach out and grasp the other woman's hand, telling her not to walk away, but after a moment of hesitation Catiua realized it was too late. Ozma walked out, boots echoing loudly through the silent library, but before she existed, she spoke softly, just loud enough to reach Catiua's and Oz's ears.

"Of course not."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, in the back of her mind, Catiua noted how ridiculous the entire scene had been: a heavily armored Ozma and the casually dressed Oz arguing over their relationship, once again, similar to her and Denam. Catiua told herself that she would go find a way to speak with Ozma later and make it up to her. Despite the older woman's jealousy and firmness, she was obviously very close to Oz and Catiua didn't want to see them torn apart.

"I apologize for the scene, Catiua, and, of course, my absence." Oz's look seemed a bit off. Catiua could tell the argument with Ozma had upset him. His whole demeanor was troubled.

"Are you well, Oz? Perhaps you should go speak with her?"

"No." His tone was harsh and adamant, and Catiua once again reminded of Denam's reactions. Catiua could read between the lines: Oz would go later, on his own time and when they had both cooled down. He changed the subject. "To make up for my bad behavior both now and a few nights ago, I've arranged something special."

Catiua blushed in spite of herself. "So early?"

"Why not? Don't worry, we won't get caught." Oz gave her a playful smile. "It will be a game."

If possible, Catiua's blush deepened and she looked to her hands. Oz walked up beside her and offered her his hand; she took it without meeting his gaze. His boldness was both humiliating and tantalizing. As she stood, his arm encircled her waist and Catiua went stiff for a moment as he gently pulled her towards the door.

"We're in public!" This earned another chuckle from Oz, who did not remove his arm.

"Do not worry, no one will see us. I've already dealt with your guards. A servant or two might see us, but there are rumors floating about already."

"W-What?" Catiua squeaked in response. She had been careful not to let anyone know. Perhaps Ozma had spoke to someone about it?

As they walked, Oz continued. "They speak of secret meetings in the library. Of a young princess who moans her lover's name at night." He seemed self-satisfied with this and Catiua suddenly felt like she wanted to die. Had she been so loud? For some reason, Catiua wasn't disturbed about Oz knowing she dreamed about him, something about that was alluring, but others knowing made her both angry and embarrassed.

"I can show you what I dream, if you like." She tried boldly, which caused Oz to stop in his tracks and remove his hand from her waist. After a moment he gave her an unreadable look and replied: "While tempting, we'll unfortunately have to wait until we're done with this. We wouldn't want my surprise to go to waste." Catiua nodded, accepting his explanation and was silent. Finally, they entered the main hallway and Oz motioned over to the door she knew to lead to the dungeons.

"Surely you're not serious?" Catiua demanded. Oz held the door open for her, ignoring her words. Catiua didn't move. After a few moments, Oz finally got frustrated, walked up and dragged the squirming Catiua through the door, boots dragging behind her without a word. The door behind them closed with a loud echo and Catiua winced. The hallway was ominously dark and Oz picked up a nearby torch, motioning for Catiua to follow. Finally sighing in submission, Catiua followed silently. Oz walked confidently and with purpose, as if the halls were more comfortable to him than his own bedroom. She was reminded of a rumor she had heard, about how he spends time in the dungeons; it was apparent that particular one had been true.

Oz led her into a large room, and used his torch to light the multiple torches on the wall, illuminating the chamber. She gasped at what she saw; throughout the room were horrible devices, many with spikes, and all with dark, dried blood. There was a large table in the corner that Catiua cautiously eyed. On it, she noticed blades of multiple lengths, hammers, axes, and smaller pointed objects that, from a distance, Catiua couldn't make out. As her gaze traveled the room, she found herself horrified; all of the commons hear tales, and Catiua had been no different growing up, but she had never been inside a torture chamber before. She heard Oz's laughter.

"I welcome you to my home, Catiua." He seemed alive, vibrant, if it could be described as such. Catiua only felt ill. "While primitive, these are the toys the Valerians have been so kind to lend me." He seemed a bit displeased, but it was only a small shadow in Oz's bright mood. "Were we in Lodis I'd be able to show you something much grander, but we must take what we can get. As you can see, my toys have different uses, the ones over there" Oz pointed off to his left "are meant to simply cause an extended and painful death. Tearing apart limb by limb, slowly impaling from the anus up through the body cavity, the like." Catiua could see which was used for which and she felt like throwing up. Oz pointed to the right side of the room; there was a distinct difference between the two. While the left side hadn't been heavily bloodied, it was very obvious the other side was well-used. Oz continued: "This side is much more fun. Death does nothing, we are not barbarians, are we Catiua dear? No, no, certainly not. These are for my more delicate art and, as you can see, are not meant to kill, only-"

Catiua couldn't take it anymore and finally interrupted Oz: "Your story has gone on long enough. Stop this at once!" He disturbed her; Catiua finally felt like she understood what Ozma was talking about. She cursed herself for not listening to the older woman.

Oz frowned and turned back towards Catiua. "I wasn't aware that anything I spoke of was a 'story,' my dear." He took a few steps in Catiua's direction and Catiua unintentionally took one back. His expression was light and pleasant, in contrast to his demeanor, which was dominant and predatory. He reached Catiua with ease, and swept her close to him, resting his cheek on top of Catiua head as he continued. "You're going to become just as intimately familiar with this room as I am." He was breathing heavily as Catiua quivered in his arms and she couldn't tell if his breath was from excitement, lust, or both.

She tried to pull away, but Oz held her with a surprisingly firm and gentle grasp.

"I'll have nothing to do with this. Bring me back upstairs at once, Oz."

He still didn't move as he held onto her, running a hand down her neck and through her hair. He gently stroked the small, almost invisible marks of the scars Catiua had healed on her neck. The motion made her shiver, and Oz brought his mouth down, kissing the marks. Catiua stopped struggling at his gentle touch. Her mind was telling her now was the time to flee, before things got out of control and Oz "accidentally" used his "toys" on her, but her body remained still, wanting to feel more of Oz's touch. She scolded herself, rationalizing her actions by arguing that this simply being Oz's way of showing his more personal side. He said that this room was his home; he was showing Catiua his private domain, where he was most comfortable. Even if Catiua didn't particularly like the daker side of Oz she had just discovered, some other part was breathless and wanted nothing more than for him to show her exactly what he was best at.

"I'm glad you see things my way." Oz murmured at her body's response. "I've taken the liberty or bringing a spare set of clothing for you this time, my dear, just in case."

He turned Catiua around gently and, much to her surprise, unbuttoned her dress. No tearing, nor cutting, but a simple release of buttons until he was able to pull it down and let it drop onto the floor. From there, he gently slid the lower layers of her clothing off until she was wearing only her underpants, with Oz fully dressed. Whether it was from Oz's presence, or simply because the room temperature, Catiua wasn't cold; her body was not only warm from arousal, but sweating from fear and panic. Catiua looked to the ground, refusing to think of what some of the tools in the room could do to the human, and non-human, body. Oz quickly stripped his casual clothes off as well, even removing his undergarments. He looked up to the ceiling, as if thinking on something, and tapped his fingers against his cheek.

"Come here, Catiua." Catiua frowned and stopped herself from taking another step back. She had decided that she would spend time with Oz today and she would not go against her decision. She cautiously took two steps toward Oz, who seemed annoyed. "Take your underpants off." He snapped and Catiua obeyed, for it made sense - certainly they couldn't have sex with them on. After she was done, Oz more gently said "I know this is very obvious, but you must absolutely refrain from telling the High Commander of our meeting today." Catiua was offended. Did he think her daft? Of course she would not tell Tartaros! She nodded, a small tinge of anger at the back of her mind, overshadowed by curiosity, lust, and fear.

Oz walked over to the small table and perused the contents on top. He lifted something large and pointed and Catiua released an audible gasp, resulting in a chuckle from Oz. He put it down and picked up something a bit smaller, but wider. He also picked up what appeared to be a small mace. Oz turned back towards her and it was all Catiua could do to not turn and flee. "Do not fear, my love." Catiua froze at the title. This was the first time he had ever called her that. At her hesitation, Oz forcefully pushed her against a nearby wall, kissing her so passionately that her head was forced back.

He grasped her hands gently, and held them together above her head. He stroked them, as if getting to extensively know their shape without his face leaving hers. He was being playful now, and Catiua found that she liked Oz having control over their encounter. He was confident, and knew exactly what he wanted; she gasped as he was particularly playful and nipped hard at her earlobe. Her gasp immediately turned into a loud screech as Catiua felt the most physically painful thing she had ever experienced. Oz had stopped kissing her now, his attention at her hands. Catiua tried squirming out of his grasp, but only screamed louder as it sent new spikes of pain through her. He gently hammered at her hands, and Catiua tried to get a look at what he was doing. Tears were streaming down her face and she titled her head to the side and up, seeing that Oz has impaled her hands together and was currently hammering them into the wall.

Between gasps of pain that only intensified as he continued slowly hammering, Catiua gasped out: "Stop!" "No!" "Please, Oz!", "Why are you doing this?" At the last he stopped hammering and gently touched her face, bringing his lips to hers again, not in the same passion as before, but in a delicate kiss, like a brother to a sister. He whispered, lips moving against hers, nose touching her cheek, and eyes directly across from hers "Because I enjoy it. Don't you want to give me pleasure, Catiua?" Catiua shook her head, forcing Oz away. She wanted nothing more to do with this. What had come over him? Why was he acting so strangely today?

"Do you not love me, Catiua? If you do, then you will accept what I give you."

Horrified and angered at the comment, Catiua didn't know how to react. She was furious, but the pain was clouding her rational thoughts. She did love Oz, but she didn't know how she was supposed to simply _accept _this mutilation!

Oz took a few steps back, looking Catiua up and down. He had a satisfied expression on his face. Catiua screamed as she tried to remove her hands unsuccessfully. Oz waved her off, saying with a bored tone "You'd best not do that. You're only hurting yourself; the spikes are too far into the wall for you to remove them by yourself." Catiua tried a few more times, only to see what he said was true. She felt blood running down her arms, but whatever twisted game Oz was doing, she would have none of it! Mustering her will, she tried with all of the remaining power in her body to try and remove her hands, only to find them stuck. She screamed in agony as fire burned through her palms and collapsed from the exertion. Her collapse only brought on a new wave of pain, as she was hanging from her hands for a second. On instinct, Catiua stood back up, relieving the additional tension.

Oz shook his head and tossed the mallet to the ground before approaching her again. He examined her hands and Catiua didn't move. She didn't look at him, instead focusing on managing the pain. She had expected anything like this. Her mind, far from rational from the pain, whispered the same word over and over: Why?

_Why-Why-Why-Why-Why-Why-Why? _She didn't realize she had been speaking it aloud until Oz gently put a finger over her lips and made a soft "shush" sound. He stroked the side of her face, removing a tear as he answered "It's okay, Catiua. You don't need to understand; you want us to be together, don't you?" Despite her pain, Catiua found herself nodding. That was what she desperately wanted, but not like this! "Then you must hold on for a bit longer."

Oz turned away again and Catiua found she missed the touch of his fingers and the feel of his breath. It had been a distraction, however little, but now the only thing she felt was the burning, throbbing pulse in her hands. Oz walked back over to the table he had been at before and seemed to be looking over what he had. He seemed a bit frustrated and turned around, stomping back across the room towards the door. He picked up his torch and more calmly walked over to Catiua again. Perhaps he was done? A fool's dream, Catiua knew.

Oz forcefully removed the spikes from the wall with a strength Catiua hadn't been able to muster. Her hands partially freed, she felt the first relief she had since the situation began. She tried to pull away, but her body was taxed from her struggle and she lacked any strength against the muscular man. He was examining her hands again. Watching his gaze, Catiua finally looked at what he was staring at - the large gaping holes left by the spikes. Catiua did her best not to vomit at the sight; she had seen blood and death in others and it had not fazed her, but in herself it was terrifying. The skin was torn and ripped in a larger circle than it had been originally from her struggles.

Oz gently ran his finger over her hands, delicate and gentle and Catiua knew what he planned. She bit down, expecting him to pierce her wounds with his finger, but the attack never came; instead he softly continued to stroke her hands, torch lying casually in his elbow.

"Did it hurt, Catiua?"

Catiua was surprised at the question, wondering it was rhetorical. After a few moments it was obvious that Oz was expecting an answer, and she finally whispered, allowing some of her fear to tinge her voice. She had just been screaming and crying, there was no point in hiding it.

"Yes." Catiua shivered as a gentle smile crossed Oz's features. He brought his lips down to her hand, kissing the area around the wounds. It was a complete contrast to his earlier actions and Catiua wondered if he was simply mentally unstable. Perhaps he had not meant to be cruel? She knew she was deluding herself, but it made it easier for Catiua to not scream and run from the room. He pulled her hands gently and Catiua allowed him more room, still cautious, but this seemed to be his way of apologizing. He finally lifted his head from her, and placed her hands into his lap.

As if on accident, the torch cradled in Oz's arm fell forward and landed right onto Catiua's bloodied hands. Catiua flinched away instantly, but Oz stopped her. Oz quickly moved his own hands out of reach, but kept Catiua from moving, instead forcing the struggling girl's hands into the flame. Catiua pulled back over and over in futile resistance, but Oz was used to the struggles of prisoners, Catiua could tell. He knew exactly how to hold her so that she could not escape.

Catiua had burned herself as a child before, but small burns, that healed after a few hours from Prancet Pavel's healing arts. They hadn't had any lasting effects, but this was completely different from anything she experienced. She wasn't even trying to move away, her body was doing it instinctively in attempt to get away from the pain. It felt as if her hands were melting, she was gasping, her body too focused on the pain to produce a scream. She felt like vomiting, and actually gagged a few times before Oz temporarily pulled the fire away, giving Catiua a moment to recover. Oz turned her hands back over, letting the palm side face the roof and after a moment, put her hands right back onto the torch, letting the flames lick the back. Catiua had never understood why some men would opt to remove their own limbs, but she understood the desire now and wanted nothing more than the agony to end. Her gasps turned into coughs as her breathing because more forced, and Oz finally relented. He released her hands; the burnt flesh landed on her legs, completely unrecognizable as hands, let alone anything remotely human.

Oz stood up and spoke kindly, almost like a warm father, as he put the torch back into its holder.

"Heal yourself. I can't have you suffering any permanent damage."

Catiua didn't hesitate, and scolded herself for not thinking about it before. The skin and flesh were badly damaged and it would take a few days of considerable healing to fully restore the bone and muscles in her hands, but she was able to temporarily lessen the pain. Her gasping got a bit quieter at the relief but she found tears streaming down her face at both the horrible appearance of her hands and at the memory of the pain. Catiua had to hope that the fire had sterilized the large wounds in her hands, or she might later get an infection. Why was Oz doing this? Did he not love her? Why did he cause her harm? _Why did he seem to be enjoying it?_

As Catiua was healing herself, she paid little attention to what Oz was doing. He had come back and was kneeling beside her again. As he noticed her tears, he pulled her forward into his warm embrace. His touch was terrifying and relaxing at once. Oz gently laid Catiua over his lap. The position was a bit odd, considering their nudity, and fortunately Oz wasn't aroused or, despite the entire predicament, Catiua would have blushed. He started massaging her shoulders and back. It was relaxing and Catiua appreciated the gesture after the nightmare she had just been through. She was relaxing at Oz's skilled touch and finally let out a warm breath.

"Don't ever leave me, Oz. Don't tear me apart."

"Don't worry, Catiua, I'll be with you forever."

That was not the answer she was looking for. Catiua felt a spike of anger and shook her head. "That's what Denam said!" Oz lifted her face and met her eyes.

"I am not like that child, Catiua. Do not compare me to him again."

Catiua almost screamed, but the only sound her throat could produce was a hiss, as Oz's massages turned violent and his dagger dug deep into her flesh. He cut vertically down her back where he had just been massaging. Catiua struggled against him again, and Oz pushed her against the ground, resting one of his knees on her lower back and the other onto her hands, which he held in front of Catiua on the ground. The pressure on her hands opened up her newly healed wounds, but Catiua barely felt it as Oz drew his dagger down her back in long strips. As he approached her spine his cuts were slightly shallower, as to not paralyze her, but as he reached the other side, they got deeper again. It was a ridiculous thought to have, but compared to the burning and gouging with a spike, this wasn't nearly as painful. It was horrible, but it didn't make her want to die.

She heard Oz gently place his dagger down on the floor beside him and Catiua wanted to grasp for it and impale him with it. The thought horrified her; she truly didn't want him to come to harm, but she hated what he was doing to her. Catiua was willing to give everything for the man she loved, but why would he abuse her generosity so? Catiua gasped as Oz started massaging her back again, this time the large cuts making it much more painful than it had been before. She kicked and squirmed under Oz and she heard a soft breath from Oz as she struggled. His hands worked the skin, tearing flesh and deepening the cuts. She could feel the wetness of her blood as Oz slid his hands over her. Still on top of her, he leaned over, pushing his now-aroused penis into her back as he whispered into her ear.

"Look what you do to me, Catiua. _This _is what I enjoy, not that ridiculous coupling you forced upon me earlier!" His voice was practically unrecognizable in its dark lust and Catiua found herself withdrawing from his presence at her neck. She was hurt at Oz's admission that he hadn't enjoyed their attempt at sex, but the thought was quickly overshadowed as Oz continued his massages for another moment and despite her misery, the back of Catiua's mind, not quite rational and definitely not intentional, felt that she liked that she could arouse Oz, even if it meant her own suffering, and enjoyed that she had his prolonged, full, and complete attention without any interruptions.

He stopped again and Catiua used the time to catch her breath. She stopped struggling and breathed heavily, trying to recover. Her entire body was covered in sweat and blood and her hands under Oz's knee were not only numb but oozing and throbbing. He was rustling around beside himself in what appeared to be a bag and Catiua winced, kicking and struggling, flopping around with as much strength as she could muster trying to stop Oz and his horrible, twisted sexual games.

Catiua felt Oz drop something, or multiple somethings, onto her back. It didn't cause any immediate pain, but when Oz began massaging again, it burned. Her gasping started anew and she begged him to stop, the stinging feeling making her entire body quake as whatever it was Oz put onto her back entered her wounds. On instinct Catiua buried her face into the hard floor, chin pressed into her chest trying to distract herself from the sting and burn. Her crying started anew and the sobs only seemed to press Oz on. Every once in a while, she felt his arousal press into her and wanting nothing more than for Oz to be a normal man with normal desire so that she could take him without having to suffer through this nightmare.

As suddenly as he started, Oz relented. He lifted himself off of Catiua's back and spoke quickly, before Catiua could begin healing.

"That is salt in your back, my love. Healing it now will only cause an infection. I must wash it out. Heal your hands while you wait for me." He said the latter with such a bored tone that Catiua wondered what could possibly be going through his head.

He came back quickly and Catiua noted that he was pleasantly rubbing his penis. Despite her pain, the image warmed her abdomen and she wanted nothing more than to have him inside of her. This entire fiasco would be much easier if he would simply do this while giving her pleasure as well! But Catiua knew that was his game; he would not please her until after he had taken everything he could from her.

Oz kneeled by Catiua again, what looked like a sponge in his hand as well as a pail of water with a rag. At first glance, Oz looked like he was going to gently clean her back, but at closer examination the "sponge" Oz had in his hand was bristled and wired and Catiua withdrew. Before she could move, Oz jumped onto her back completely, pressing his chest into her wounds. His erection was between her legs, touching her outer regions rather than her inner, tempting her and she resisted the urge to grind against it. Oz, however, did not resist the urge and teased at her vagina with it, not quite entering, but letting Catiua know that he still had pleasure on his mind.

Catiua's distraction was short lived, as Oz poured a bit of cool water over her back, wiping very gently with the rag. After her entire back was wet Oz very gently began scrubbing it with the wire mesh ball and Catiua screamed. It was not a sharp, immediate pain like her hands being tacked into the wall, but it was a prolonged agony that made her feel as if her skin and muscles were being ripped apart. She screamed as Oz pushed down hard into her wounds, not even bothering to struggle, since her body was quaking in misery. Every one in a while he would stop, gently rubbing her back with the wet cloth and letting her catch her breath. He would hold it down onto the wounds, dip it into the bucket, then hold it again, letting the water push the salt out. As Catiua was feeling comfortable and relaxing, Oz would begin his ministrations with the "sponge" once again, tearing at her flesh. Eventually her screams slowed as her throat was hoarse, rendering her incapable of making anything but loud gasps and squeaks. She didn't realize it, but in her struggles she had urinated on the floor. Oz had apparently noticed it and gently cleaned between her thighs, spending extra time fingering her as he finished washing.

As Oz finally relented, removing himself, Catiua knew her back was completely unrecognizable. She immediately began healing herself and Oz sat down beside her. He held Catiua's head on his knee, away from his penis, and met her eyes, bringing his face close.

"I love you so much Catiua. I love that you're loyal, I love that you're devoted, I love that you're willing to give this poor, tortured soul what he desires. I do not deserve such a beauty." Oz gently pushed Catiua's hair away from her face, her slick sweat making it stick in odd positions. His mouth gently met hers in a soft kiss, loving and thorough, like one that Catiua had always dreamed of as a child. It was filled with lust and Catiua returned it in kind, making sure he felt all the love she had for him, for it was taking her to her very limits of devotion to stay with him.

"You've been so tolerant of me so far, I think I should give you something in return." Oz gently removed Catiua's head and stood up, offering her his hand. Catiua took it and immediately screeched, having temporarily forgotten her wounds; even though she had healed them, they would still be fragile for the next few days as her body recovered and her skin thickened over them. The skin didn't rip, and Catiua stood panting as she recovered. After a moment, Oz gently led Catiua over to the only plain wall in the room: The door. In an instant he had pushed her against the door, kissing her with passion and forcing her arms to the side. He had a dagger in his hand that Catiua hadn't noticed before, but unlike before, he didn't seem intent on using it, focusing on pleasing Catiua before harming her. He finally, finally put his penis into her causing Catiua to release a small squeak as he forced her back onto the door. After a few pushes, Catiua found herself disappointed when he exited her. Unlike before, he was still aroused, and Catiua wasn't sure what the problem was. Apparently, there was none, as Oz put a finger over her lips, silencing her. He spread her legs gently as he kneeled and brought his mouth to her vagina.

His tongue rolled over Catiua's clitoris and she immediately gasped, but not in pain, but in pleasure. It was a different sensation from pleasing herself with her fingers, it was smooth, delicate, and Catiua found herself pushing forward, wanting more. His tongue moved in slow circles, sometimes even moving down and around the area and his hands stroked her stomach, hips, and thighs. Even though her body was worn and wounded, Catiua found herself ignoring the pain, or perhaps more accurately, accepting it, along with the pleasure Oz was giving her. She gently grasped at his hair, and leaned her head back as Oz removed his mouth and played at her with his finger. He knew how to please a woman well, and the back of Catiua's rational mind, which was far from surfacing, wondered how he knew it better than even Catiua did.

But, given this was Oz she was with, Catiua knew that all good things had to come to an end. As her body trembled in excitement, she felt Oz's dagger pierce into her mons from the top, cutting it downwards, causing a large flap of pubic region to be hanging. Catiua's reaction was very slightly delayed due to her lust but she let out another hoarse scream, trying to push Oz away. Oz ignored her futile kicks and instead gently played at the blood that was pouring down her thighs. Catiua was crying and sobbing now, but as Oz rubbed the blood gently over her vagina and clitoris, she found herself gasping in pleasure as well. Her body was sending mixed signals and Catiua didn't understand it at all.

Her mind quickly faded as her body was filled with both lust and pain. The flap that was once her mons was painful, but the way Oz was touching her, the small, slow circles and fast vertical strokes, overwhelmed her. Despite the blood between her legs, she could feel her body release its natural lubrication as she released a small moan of pleasure along with her gasps of pain. at the sound, Oz stopped temporarily and looked up.

"This is an unexpected surprise. . .but not necessarily an unpleasant one." Oz stopped. "So you're beginning to enjoy this as well." The statement required no answer. "It seems I may have to revise my strategy."

Oz got up and Catiua released a small squeak of displeasure at his game. Oz turned back and gave her a small smile. "Don't worry dear, we're not done yet. Follow me."

Catiua clutched at the flap of skin and healed it as she followed Oz. It was very deep, much deeper than the wounds on her back, but not quite as bad as the ones on her hands. Catiua focused more on healing the internal flesh and fat and only doing the bare minimum to close the top of the skin. She was exhausted from the use of her power, as well as her screams and her body's ache for lust.

A still aroused Oz leaned over and picked up what looked to be armor. Catiua frowned, certainly after all that they weren't done yet? But Oz simply put the leather armor over his hands and arms as well as his knees and mid thighs. Offhandedly, Catiua thought he was very resilient; he had been aroused for some time now. Perhaps it was simply because Catiua was used to tales of boys and young girls, but Oz knew how to control his desire and Catiua found it alluring. She wondered how long he could last while pleasing her. Catiua's mind clicked just then, and it occurred to her: Despite everything horrible he had done, perhaps this simply _was _his way of pleasing her? Catiua was shocked; it all made sense. Especially after he had rubbed his penis against her while massaging her back, then licking at her as her own blood covered her vagina. At the latter thought, Catiua realized her vagina was sticky from the blood, but ignored it. It would be wet once again in moments once Oz's attention was back on her.

Oz's leader "armor" pressed against her uncomfortably as he lifted Catiua up. Catiua was shocked at the motion, but squeaked in pain as her back felt like it was being torn from its newly healed wounds. He walked over to a nearby table that Catiua couldn't see and very gently put her down.

Catiua immediately bristled as she felt spikes on her back. But as she moved, the pain only intensified where she put her weight. Where ever he weight was focused, the sharp spikes left small patches of open wounds that dotter her skin. As she balanced her weight over her body, the pressure was enough to be annoying and painful, but not break her skin.

Oz's protective gear made sense to Catiua; he was preparing for this spiky bed. He leaned over Catiua, his knees and elbows on the table. He was not suffering from this as Catiua was. Catiua released a small scream of pain as Oz put his weight onto her, causing the spikes to pierce the skin of her back. He very gently squirmed on top of her, causing Catiua's back and buttocks to move causing the wounds to widen and spread. But Oz's body on top of her made the pain tolerable. He seemed to be enjoying himself as he leaned back onto his elbows, his face just above hers as he spoke, loudly, confidently:

"I want you so much."

At his warm tone and soft touch, despite everything that happened, Catiua found herself forgiving Oz. He wanted her just as much as she wanted him and there was nothing more that she could ask for. Despite the pain in her back, she clutched at Oz, pulling him hard onto of her. She released a small scream at the motion. She let her body meet Oz's, hips up and weight on her upper back. Oz moved quickly inside of her, each thrust causing Catiua's back to be forced down onto the spikes.

Her body was confused. She felt like screaming, even if the sound would be hoarse and broken, but she also felt like moaning in pleasure at Oz's motions. Catiua was amazed that her body was able to feel pleasure at all with the overwhelming pain she was enduring; her hormones were flowing and her body would not be satisfied after so long waiting for Oz. Lifting herself up a bit with her forearms, she pushed her back above the spikes. She released a high pitched gasp of pain at the motion and fell back down, but this only seemed to urge Oz on more. He didn't bother with touching her anywhere; he was focused on relieving himself and causing Catiua pain. He was pushing more violently than he had been before as to tear Catiua's back apart, but his ferocity pleased Catiua even more and her lower body was warm, spasming in pleasure; each time Oz pushed himself into her she felt herself contract.

Tears were flowing from her eyes at the pain, but her mouth as she gasped in pleasure and horror. She was making and odd mixture of sounds that seemed to satisfy Oz and her entire body was tingling and throbbing. The pain was everywhere, her legs, back, and arms had large wounds in them, but the feel was getting mixed in with her arousal and Catiua found that rather than pain, she felt the wounds as pleasure. It was as if Oz was pleasing her entire body at once; the feeling was overwhelming and she felt a small wave of euphoria, similar to one she felt like masturbation and her mind clouded, only experiencing the waves of pleasure. It was over after a moment, but Oz continued pushing into her. Despite her pain, Catiua was satisfied. Oz continued his thrusts and Catiua felt the pleasure subside and the pain return. As she cried in pain, Oz grunted in pleasure. His eyes were closed now, his toned chest expanding rapidly with his heavy, lusty breaths. The feel of him inside her wasn't enough to arouse Catiua again, but it felt both odd and strangely pleasant at the same time. His thrusts became faster as Catiua tried to move to relieve the pain, only to have her fall back onto her back, releasing a loud gasp and shock. Struggling to reduce the pressure and throbbing only seemed to increase it, but her body would certainly not let her ay there and be ripped apart; it was instinctually trying to move to safety, and the motions only incapacitated Catiua more.

It happened in an instant and Oz was finished. He was gasping softly in pleasure and Catiua couldn't think of anything she had seen that ever looked or sounded more attractive. He removed himself from her, but didn't get off. He sat there panting, his full weight on her. Catiua cried out softly at the spies pressing into her back and begged to Oz.

"Please, please, get off. It hurts. . ."

Painfully slowly, Oz removed himself from Catiua. He seemed a bit clumsy, accidentally hitting her body, causing her legs to dig into the table as he knocked them. He stretched and, if his body language was representative of his mood, he seemed to be in high spirits. He turned to Catiua without offering a hand; Catiua wouldn't have accepted it anyway, her hands were still too damaged. He leaned down and removed the armor on his legs and arms as he spoke.

"Come, Catiua. Get up and heal yourself, we're going to bathe."

Catiua tried to sit up but immediately fell back at the pain. After a few moments of catching her breath, she opted for rolling off the table. It did get her off, but the impact from landing on the floor knocked the wind from her lungs. After catching her breath as she healed herself, not bothering to move off the floor. She could see Oz picking their clothes up and folding them into a small pile for easy transport.

"I-I'm not going upstairs like this!"

Despite her external wounds being healed, she was still bloody and they could easily reopen at minor pressure. The "scars," if they could be called such, were still fresh, pink, and very obviously enflamed and puffed above her skin. Oz waved the comment off.

"I've a bath down here. Some prisoners do like to make a mess of things and sister is always complaining if I walk the halls with blood on my boots."

Oz unlocked the door and, both nude, walked Catiua down the dark hallways, torch in hand. They reached a room to the side with a small pool that was obviously used as Oz's bath. It looked to Catiua like it was meant for boiling people alive and she took a few steps back. Oz laughed and replied pleasantly.

"Don't worry, we're done for now. I'll just turn the furnace on and warm the water up for us. I have it cleaned every time it's used, so you need not worry about flesh floating about."

Catiua shivered, knowing full well that it might possibly be her flesh "floating about" in there if she continued along this dangerous path. Every fiber of her rationality told her Oz was a horrible, cruel man and she should run now, but her heart was telling her to stay. He was also a gentle, lonely man who loved his sister very much. Catiua hoped that he would love her as much as Ozma someday.

Oz warmed the furnace underneath the bath and quickly move back as waves of heat blew out. As they waited, Oz gently curled his arm around her waist, running his hand up and down her hip. He seemed lost in thought and Catiua used that time to stare at his face. She hadn't noticed it before, but saw the fresh beginnings of a beard on his normally clean-shaven face. When he had rubbed against her, the only thing she had been feeling was agony, so a few small prickles hadn't phased her. After a few moments, Oz walked over to the furnace and turned it down. The water was steaming and Oz put their clothes on the ground some distance away. He put his finger into the water to test it and nodded approvingly. He waved Catiua over and walked into the water himself, speaking as Catiua cautiously approached.

"I've not met anyone who takes pleasure in what I give them; not even Sister. Not that she would tolerate it."

It was an odd comment, one that confused Catiua. His wistful words belied a secondary undertone that Catiua didn't understand. Oz leaned down into the water and Catiua took a cautious step in. It was a bit cool, but warm enough not to be unpleasant. Dried flecks of blood and thicker, half-dried blood floated off into the water from her legs and, as she got deeper, waist, abdomen, hands, and back. She submerged herself in the water and cleaned her blood-stickied hair. She scrubbed at her arms gently, and washed her hands with as much delicacy as she could; they were still the most painful part of her body, for Oz had mutilated them more than anything else. She tried to clean her back with minimal success, only to be surprised when Oz came over to help her. He pushed her hair forward and ran his fingers down her back, tracing the lines he had cut. She shivered at his touch, terrified he might harm her again; the pain never came and he continued stroking. He was uncharacteristically quiet despite his previous pleasant mood and after a few moments Catiua turned to him. Oz didn't move and they spent a quiet moment looking over each other before Catiua moved behind him and put her own hands onto his back.

Her hands were shaking as she started massaging his shoulders, but his muscles were tight and Catiua could tell he didn't get a massage often. He leaned into her, but only just slightly. Catiua could tell that Oz was unused to letting his guard down and she liked seeing him just a bit more vulnerable than he usually appeared. It was at the times like these, small moments she might not give a thought to normally, that she realized just how little of Oz she knew. She had fallen in love with Oz without even knowing him. Catiua didn't push herself and instead kept her distance, knowing if she leaned against his back he would move away. She ran her hands up the side of his face, and brushed her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. He leaned his head back a bit more, and Catiua was happy she could please her lover.

"I've a thought, my love." Oz finally spoke, voice quiet and serious.

Catiua stopped her gentle massage and made a curious "Hmm?" sound.

"Sister has been upset lately. After a recent assignment to Rhime, she has distanced herself from me." She could tell Oz was frowning. It seemed like ages ago, but Catiua knew that it could not have been more than a few hours since the argument between siblings. Catiua felt a pang of guilt; this distance was likely her fault, and if not entirely her fault, at least partially. Oz continued, a bit brighter in tone "You and I are going to make her feel better."

Catiua responded curiously, not sure if she was about to fall into another one of his traps. "What do you need me to do, Oz?"

Oz turned around to face her, his expression serious. He removed her hands from his head and held them gently, turning to her.

"You're going to convince her to join us for an evening."

At first Catiua thought she had heard him incorrectly, but his expression was so bright and hopeful that she knew that her fears had come to pass. Oz was definitely using her for something dangerous.

"Oz, are you mad? She will not accept when I ask! You've a much better chance."

"She will decline." Oz said factually. "I've tried before." Catiua's eyes widened. "Oh please, do not pretend to be horrified. You are close to your own 'brother,' and I daresay you fancied him at one point."

"This is the second time I've been told that today." Her tone was flat, annoyed.

"It is the truth. I trust you will do as I ask? She will not accept my advances, but you must convince her."

"What makes you think I will be able to convince her?" Catiua demanded, a bit frustrated.

Oz shrugged and released her hands. "Ozma takes to those who ask nicely. You seem to be good at that." Catiua found herself grating her teeth, annoyed. She had no idea how to do this, let alone why she bother indulging Oz's strange fantasies about his sister. Catiua didn't realize she was letting her annoyed jealousy show until Oz started laughing. "Don't worry dear, you're going to join us as well. Now come, let us dry and clothe ourselves and head back upstairs before anyone misses us.

* * *

><p>Due to successive healing over a matter of days, Catiua's wounds had healed. Her back, legs, and arms were clear, and the burnt skin had been regenerated, but there were still small remains from her hands being impaled into the wall. Even those would fade and disappear in the days to come, but Catiua had no doubt the memory would scar her for some time. She dreamed of the experience every night, often ending with both masturbation and terror.<p>

Oz's planning had been secure; Lanselot Tartaros had not learned of their excursion, however, the servants talked. One of them had even been so bold to ask her how "good" and "big" Oz was. Catiua, unsure of the meaning of such slang until the servant had started making inappropriate motions, glared at the servant and sent her away for a flogging. She would have none of those rumors spread at her expense.

After continued pressure from Oz, Catiua had finally given in. Today she would find Ozma and "convince" her to join Oz and herself. Oz had been frustrated at Catiua's delay and she could tell he wanted pleasure from his sister. Given what he would do to Catiua if not satisfied, Catiua felt the better option was to speak with Ozma. She was a bit spiteful at Oz's emotional blackmail, especially considering how little she saw him.

To her surprise, Tartaros had no problem with Catiua speaking with Ozma; Tartaros had said it would be "good for her" and Ozma would be a "proper influence." Catiua wondered if Tartaros feared Oz would permanently damage or possibly even kill her. He had done neither, and while she respected his fears about the pain Oz could cause, she could simply not understand why he was so adamant about keeping her away from the man she loved. Tartaros had been so confident about Ozma that she had even been allowed entry into Ozma's room without her guard. The freedom was a welcome relief from the constant, dutiful, presence of the Templars.

Ozma was a respectful host, giving Catiua drink and offering her a seat at her table. Catiua smiled gently, noting the demeanor of the other woman. Her normally impassive mask was often slipping and revealing a haunted expression. Ozma was worn and worried and Catiua did not understand the older woman at all, but persistence and strength were to be admired. Ozma was not a woman to dance around what she wanted, and after she had finished formalities, she immediately spoke.

"Your presence here bodes ill for me. What ridiculous errand has Oz sent you here on? Tell him to apologize for himself."

Catiua frowned. "He has not apologized?" Ozma nodded; things were already not going as she planned them. "I don't think he knows how to approach you about it." Ozma let out a soft sigh and nodded once again. "But that's not why I'm here."

"Oh? Then why are you here? It is not as if we are friends."

"Oz has asked me to-"

Ozma cut Catiua off. "I know it had to do with him. Whatever it is, absolutely not. I won't play my brother's games."

Catiua was getting frustrated, lacking any tolerance for Ozma's words. Ozma was stubborn and Catiua had no intention of playing _Ozma's _games. Gritting her teeth, Catiua continued as if Ozma hadn't spoke: "Oz asked me to invite you to a night together. With us."

That struck Ozma silent and Catiua found herself blushing at the thought. Asking Oz had been easier, as she wanted him, but Catiua had no sexual interest in Ozma. She was a beautiful woman, and one she could distantly admire, and, fantasy dreams about being in Ozma's body aside, she didn't feel the pull she did with Oz. That obnoxious voice at the back of her head whispered that she wanted to know if Ozma really looked as she did in Catiua's dreams, but Catiua pushed her dirty thoughts down roughly; this was not the time for that particular nonsense.

"No." Ozma replied flatly, attempting to end the conversation. Catiua would not give in.

"Why not?" Catiua demanded in return, voice rising in pitch.

"I said no. If this is Oz's way of begging for forgiveness I'll have none of it. Why have you accepted his ridiculous task?"

"Do not change the subject, Dame Ozma. Why do you refuse your brother's attempts at apology?"

"Sex is not an apology, Catiua! I see your hands." Catiua paused; she hadn't realized she had been showing them so openly. "I listen to the rumors. I love my brother, but he does not deserve your forgiveness." Ozma frowned. "Besides, I am to be married. It would not do to have an affair with my brother when my own fiancée is in the same castle!"

Catiua realized why Oz had no intention of asking his sister himself. Ozma was not only stubborn, but had good reason for disagreeing with his 'plan,' if it could be called such. But Catiua had promised Oz that she would convince his sister, and even if Ozma made her angry and frustrated, she wouldn't break her promise.

After a few moments on musing on the dilemma, the answer hit her like a sword to the stomach. She knew what Ozma's problem was and why she was acting this way. It was like looking at herself in a mirror, except Oz had helped Catiua through her problems and Ozma was simply too stubborn to accept the help from anyone.

"You're depressed."

That made Ozma angry. The elder was trained well enough not to yell, but her fists were clenched and her breathing quickened. She considered her words carefully and didn't reply for a moment. Catiua took a drink of water as she waited for Ozma.

"As were you, but I did not pry into your business!"

Catiua snorted, causing her to choke on her water. After a moment of coughing with Ozma staring at her, apathetic, Catiua replied in anger.

"How amusing. That's not how I remember it at all! Not once but twice you forced your way into your brother's and my relationship! Oz is my business, and that means you're my business."

Ozma laughed. It was a disturbing, dark sound that reminded Catiua of Oz's laughter down in the dungeons. She recognized that it meant danger.

"Nonsense, you're being a selfish little girl. The world doesn't work that way. A few flowery words and a hug from my brother won't make everything right."

"Argh!" Catiua hissed in frustration. She was done trying to be nice to this woman; Ozma had no intention of listening to her. "Oz helped me through my problems; he wants to help you through yours." She tried one more time.

Ozma's laughter started again.

"Oz didn't do anything except force you into depression, you blind child! He enjoyed seeing your spikes, the highs and lows of your emotions. Your tears amuse him and your struggles arouse him. You were something the High Commander ordered him not to touch and because of that he wanted you even more. But his game backfired; you cling to him, love him. He doesn't understand. He won't ever desire you the way you want him to. Even now, when you can finally say he's 'yours' he does everything for his own pleasure. You are lucky he did not tear you apart!" Ozma breathed heavily, regaining her self-control. She was emotional and passionate and it leant truth to her words. "It was you who lifted yourself from depression."

Catiua was frozen. What she was saying was impossible. Oz wouldn't do that! Catiua could tell that Ozma truly believed what she was saying; in her depression, how Ozma viewed the world was questionable and couldn't be trusted, but that she had warned her about this even before she was depressed - Catiua stopped the thought before she finished. Catiua herself had been depressed and conflicted before she met with Oz, it was entirely possible her own state of mind had twisted events and words around for her as well, that her own perception of Oz and Ozma might have been skewed as well. Despite that revelation, Catiua could also not deny Oz's more subtle emotions. He was often frustrated and confused, angry, and even sad. The way he just barely let his guard down as she had touched his shoulders and his loneliness that no one took pleasure with him. These were things that Catiua saw with a clear mind. Maybe he had been playing with her before, but now, Catiua knew that his game was over. She was not going to let Ozma delude her any longer!

"You're lying. You're trying to turn me against Oz; were you in a normal emotional state you'd not say such things."

"There you go again. It's as if nothing I say reaches beyond your ears. You and Oz are suited for each other." Ozma turned away from Catiua with a huff.

"I feel the same about you." Catiua snapped in return.

Ozma got up slowly and gave Catiua firm look. "This conversation is over, Princess. I told you, I'm to be married and I cannot afford to give into my emotions."

_Marriage. _The word echoed through Catiua's mind. She didn't want to think on it, but the very thought of marrying someone for position terrified her. She understood that when she was Queen her own personal feelings needed to be put aside, but it made the facts no easier to accept. Catiua could understand Ozma's hesitance, if she did, indeed, not love her fiancée. Ozma, like Catiua's own Denam, had put her emotions aside for the sake of duty and that led to a heavy burden that had crushed her. They were simple assumptions on Catiua's part, but she could guess that perhaps Ozma didn't feel anything more than a cool responsibility towards her soon-to-be-husband, else she might not be so hesitant.

"What of Balxephon?" Catiua didn't move from her chair and looked up at the standing Ozma across from her.

"What of him?" Flat, distant, cold.

"You don't love him." Catiua accused. The comment earned a sigh from Ozma.

"Love has no place for women like you and I. Duty comes first; you may love Oz, no matter how misguided the love is, but you will never have him. It is my duty to be partnered with Balxephon; it is not my place to complain, for I will do it for the betterment of my country. My own heart shattered years ago. Oz seeks to mend my heart, but pieces are missing; it is an incomplete puzzle." A small, sad laugh escaped her. "But where he failed with me, he succeeded with you, even if 'twas not his intention."

Catiua had no response. The words sang of truth and shook her. No matter how much she cried, begged, and grasped at, she would never have the man she loved.

"That's not reason to give up." Catiua wasn't sure she believed her own words. "We have to make do with the time we have."

"And then what?"

"I-I don't know." Catiua looked down, quiet for a moment. "But I know that I love Oz. Whether what you say is true or not doesn't matter, I cannot deny my feelings. You're hurting, but you're also hurting others. Oz is just as upset as you are."

Catiua's hypocrisy was astounding. She spoke the words, but she refused to follow them in her own life, instead choosing to ignore the logic behind them. Ozma's expression was thoughtful but Catiua's own inner turmoil made her realize how selfish she had been. Catiua had been so angry at Denam; he was becoming independent, even dangerous and influential, and Catiua felt like she didn't know him at all. Now that she had left him, she had only torn the rift wider; he still fought on to protect his people and goals, while Catiua struggled. .for what? For love? That had been her small goal before, when trying to rise from her personal darkness. But what about now? There was more to her existence than Oz. She had to fight for her people, her country, and herself. As much as she was loathe to admit, she had to become what she had ran away from: Denam and his responsibility.

That brought back her inner conflict: Could she face Denam?

Catiua sighed, getting up from her own chair. "I apologize, Dame Ozma. It was a mistake coming here. I will tell Oz your answer."

As Catiua turned away, Ozma murmured quietly.

"Stop." Catiua didn't even know she had heard the other woman until Ozma spoke with more force. "Stop. Come back here and sit with me." Ozma, lacking the elegance she normally displayed, fell down in her chair. Catiua cautiously turned back and walked over, sitting across from Ozma. She folded her hands in her lap and braced herself for what Ozma had to say.

"You're right. I am hurting others with my actions and I apologize." Ozma's shoulders seemed to lighten at the statement, as if some pressure was relieved from her mind and body. "Though it is too late for me, you still have a chance for happiness. Oz, too, is sad and lonely, he clings to me because no one else will accept him. Perhaps you are exactly what he needs."

Catiua was surprised at the admission. To bury her pride such was something Catiua didn't know if she could do, and this was not the first time Ozma had done such in her presence. Despite their similarities, it seemed Tartaros was correct; there were many things Catiua would learn from the elder woman. Before Catiua could reply, Ozma continued.

"I will accept Oz's offer, but not for the reasons he is expecting. I want to teach you, both of you." A small smile appeared on her features, the first Catiua had ever seen. "We will turn it into a game, you see. I will show you his weaknesses; how best to please him, and how to make him beg in the same way that he makes you beg."

Catiua didn't know whether to laugh, smile, be shocked, or be appalled. Her tone consisted of all of them, but primarily a mixture of laughter and shock. "I wouldn't do that to Oz!" Her amusement, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, seeped heavily into her words, amusing Ozma as well.

"There's no need to hide it, Catiua. Oz has it coming; he likely planned this entire scenario between us to try and force you and I apart and make him have to 'choose between us,' but, once again, his plan has backfired spectacularly. Women are not nearly as predictable as he would like to think."

"Are you. . .sure you really want to do this, Dame Ozma?"

Ozma waved her off. "Stop with the formality, we're going to be sisters." Catiua's mouth almost dropped open. Was Ozma implying what Catiua believed she was implying? "Can you use a whip?"

Catiua shook her head, not sure where Ozma was going with the conversation. "Excellent. It seems we'll have a willing playtoy to teach you with." Some light had returned to Ozma's eyes and the strength returned to her voice. "Tell Oz to come visit tonight, two hours after supper. I will deal with the High Commander. Come early, I must prepare you."

* * *

><p>To say Oz had been shocked at Catiua's news was an understatement. He had blinked and asked Catiua a series of questions that mostly had to do with her wording, including: "Are you <em>sure <em>you were clear about what we are going to do?" "Did she really agree, or was it a passive 'okay?'" and ". . .Really?"

Catiua kept Ozma's plans a secret. She felt bad for an hour or so before concluding that Oz did, indeed, deserve it for what he had done to her in the dungeons. Whether she had enjoyed it or not, he had still hurt her and Catiua felt a bit of revenge was in order. Ozma just so happened to be willing to both help her get revenge and strengthen her relationship with Oz. Catiua felt like a little girl planning on stealing one of Denam's cookies. She knew what she was doing is wrong, but it was so delicious that she couldn't stop herself.

Her day passed in a haze, and in her excitement she was jumpy and giggly. At more than one point her Templar guards had asked her to calm down, to which Catiua had responded with a bad look, only to continue smiling a few moments later. She hadn't remembered being this happy in a long time; she almost felt like a little girl again.

As evening approached, Catiua asked to return to her room early. Tartaros had been curious, but pleased that she and Ozma were getting along well. To her surprise, Tartaros had mentioned that if she wanted, he would assign her to Ozma for a time, for Ozma had been acting strangely; he was worried about letting her onto the field. Catiua had cautiously replied, as not to speak openly of Ozma's emotions, that she had a feeling Ozma would be feeling better soon to which Tartaros gave her a long, calculated look. Catiua had smiled calmly and moved on, worried that she might have given away too much.

Supper had been a hurried affair. It wasn't until after that her excitement turned to nervousness. It was the same as with Oz; she was confident before the meeting, but when the event approached she was terrified. It felt like going into battle, a different type of battle, perhaps, but the feeling was similar. She found herself pacing around the room, snapping at any servants who came in. After what seemed like a Scale, a Templar finally arrived to escort her to Ozma's room. Their presence was getting annoying; Catiua was perfectly capable of escorting herself.

Ozma had been waiting. As soon as the Templar knocked, she opened the door and waved him off. The Templar seemed surprised at the quick dismissal, but a glare from Ozma sent him scurrying away. She ushered Catiua in and looked her over disapprovingly.

"I've quite a bit of work to do, it seems. Do you have nothing that Oz might find attractive?"

"I didn't think to bother. Oz didn't dress up formally when he took me down to. . ." Catiua trailed off. Ozma didn't seem to react to the implication of the statement; she'd heard it all before and it was likely quite normal for her.

"Of course he didn't. Despite training from a young age, he does not know how to court a woman. Or perhaps he simply refused to learn. 'Tis all part of the process and, like it or not, Oz will like it if you look good for him. No matter his own ridiculous desires, he can still appreciate a beautiful woman."

Ozma pulled Catiua through her room and sat her down at the same table she had been at when speaking to the older woman earlier. The table was empty, so Catiua wasn't sure the point, but Ozma turned her around and brushed at her hair. She was rough and Catiua made a displeased sound.

"Stop complaining."

"I'm not a child, I can brush my own hair."

"And do what with it? Keep it as it is? That does you no favors with Oz. My ridiculous brother uses me as his standard of beauty, so I'm going to give him what he likes, but with you."

Catiua almost felt the childish urge to comment about how she wanted Oz to like her for who she was, but decided against it. This wasn't about Oz "liking" her, this was about his lust. Ozma knew what Oz liked, so Catiua would defer to her judgment in this case, even if it meant letting Ozma do as she would with her hair.

With a small comb, Ozma gently parted Catiua's hair to the side. Catiua frowned but said nothing. She had tried this before but it looked horrible. Ozma didn't bother with being delicate, instead opting for efficiency. Catiua could hear her murmur something about "looks better this way" and "more appropriate" that made Catiua clench her hands into the arms of the chair. There was nothing wrong with her hair! Nodding in approval as she brushed Catiua's hair back, Ozma took a small pin out and put it into Catiua's hair holding it to the side to stop it from falling back over into a normal part.

"We'll remove that later. Now come into my chamber, I've prepared some clothes. I had some servants go into town and procure them for you." Catiua offhandedly replied about that not being necessary and Ozma gave her a bad look. "Do not take my gifts for granted. You will respond properly to my gift." Catiua realized that Ozma had a point and thanked Ozma, causing the elder to continue as if the entire dialogue had not occurred. "You're going to put these on now, despite us still having quite a bit of time, because you need to get used to them."

Ozma led Catiua over to her bed where some very obviously risqué undergarments were sitting. They were black, a corset and underpants, as well as a thin, semi-opaque inappropriately short nightshift.

"Y-You can't expect me to wear this!" Catiua spoke, shocked.

Ozma seemed amused at Catiua's reaction. "And why not?"

"It's not appropriate! I'll look like a harlot."

"Oh? I suppose him seeing you naked is that much more appropriate?" Catiua found herself blushing despite the comment. When Ozma worded it as such, she realized her own ridiculousness. Oz had already seen her naked, had touched her, had hurt her, and had pleased her. A simple outfit meant for attracting the man she desired should not embarrass her so.

Ozma motioned for Catiua to strip and Catiua hesitated for a moment. She motioned to the buttons down her back and Ozma nodded, assisting her. As Catiua's dress fell to the ground, she realized why it made her nervous. She was actively trying to make Oz lust after her. Before she had pursued him and hoped he would come to her, but with Ozma's assistance she was going to arouse Oz, this time without requiring her blood and pain.

"Change your undergarments." Ozma didn't look away as Catiua removed hers and put on the much smaller, much thinner new ones. They fit well, and Catiua wondered how Ozma had acquired her size. As she finished, Ozma walked around behind Catiua. Catiua tried to turn, but Ozma stopped her, turning her back around.

"Oz likes corsets." Was her simple statement. In turn, she opened the corset around Catiua. Catiua was only slightly familiar with the articles, but she knew she was supposed to breathe in. Doing so, she questioned Ozma as the other woman tied the laces behind her back.

". . .Yes?" Catiua was immediately brought back to her questioning of servants. One had mentioned something similar; Catiua had almost forgotten about it. "Is this what the servants spoke of when they spoke of 'inappropriate undergarments?'"

Ozma's laughter filled the room.

"Exactly. I know not where he got the ridiculous -" Ozma paused for a moment. "Okay, perhaps it is my fault. But he is a man; Oz should leave it to women to wear such articles. Now, breathe deeply in." Catiua did so and Ozma started tying the corset more tightly around her. As she got higher, Ozma adjusted the front, making sure Catiua's breasts were "properly" placed, or, rather, almost pushed out the top. Having the other woman touch her breasts was a bit odd and Catiua resisted the urge to slap her hand away. Ozma was going to be having sex with them, why was she so nervous around her?

The corset felt odd. It forced her to breathe lightly and Catiua wasn't sure she liked it. She knew it likely did miracles for her figure, but having lived under an Abuna for much of her life it was hard shaking off the morals she had been raised with. Of course, Catiua was no longer a girl and it was perfectly acceptable for men to look at her as attractive, but no matter how normal it may be, it was still uncomfortable.

"Arms up." Catiua complied and Ozma slipped the sheer garment over the top of the corset. It was much shorter than anything she would wear to bed. Ozma gently pulled it down over her body and as she did such, very obviously ran her hand over Catiua's breast. Catiua squeaked, demanding to know what the Ozma was doing.

"Oh hush, Catiua. I'm going to be doing more to you later, you'd best get used to my touch. Would you complain if Oz did the same?" Catiua shook her head, ashamed, causing Ozma to make a disapproving sound. Instead of releasing Catiua, the Templar encircled her arm around her waist and pulled her against her. Catiua froze as Ozma's hand found its way into the top of the corset, pulling out her mostly-exposed breast. She played with the areola and nipple gently, causing Catiua's lower regions to tingle a bit and her body to shiver. Catiua colored and squirmed against Ozma, causing the older woman to laugh. Ozma gently replaced Catiua's breast and released her.

"Wait here, I'll need your help with my own outfit." Catiua nodded, not able to meet the other woman's eyes. Ozma meant no harm but the whole situation was eerily reminiscent of a few of Catiua's dreams where she had been in the body of Oz's "sister." Catiua didn't have those dreams as often anymore, instead hearing Oz whisper her name instead, but the memory was not only slightly disturbing, but even more arousing. Ozma walked over to a small chest and leaned down; she rustled through what appeared to be a trunk of clothes, and tossed her own sheer nightshift and corset onto her bed. In a faster motion than Catiua's, she removed her clothes. As if an afterthought, Ozma leaned back over her chest, her own pants and top strewn across the floor haphazardly. She was finally done when she brought out her own pair of thin undergarments, and quickly removed her own, replacing them with the new set.

Ozma walked over to Catiua and Catiua avoided looking down at the other woman's breasts and body, respecting her space. This seemed to disappoint Ozma, who handed the corset to Catiua and turned her back to her. Catiua encircled it around the other woman and Ozma helped her fit it in the front. Catiua saw how it was tied and worked at it slowly, making sure she made no mistakes. The overlapping strings were elegant and Catiua had to admit the way it curved around Ozma's body was attractive. "Tighter, now Catiua." Catiua nodded and strung it tighter as Ozma breathed in and Catiua continued tying the strings until she reached the top, where she knotted and tied it into a small little bow.

Releasing Ozma to let her know she was done, Ozma walked over and picked up her own nightshift and put it over the corset. Finally catching a glimpse of Ozma's body, Catiua felt jealousy spike through her. If she looked even half as good as the older woman, she would be happy.

Ozma pointed over to the bed and Catiua slowly followed her. Ozma sat down near the top of the bed and Catiua sat a bit lower, keeping a respectful distance. This seemed to annoy Ozma, and she pulled Catiua closer without a word. After a moment, Ozma turned to her small bedside dresser; from the small dresser she picked out a few multicolored bottles and pouches, placing them gently on the bed beside she and Catiua.

"What are these?" Catiua asked curiously and boldly. Ozma was being remarkably bold and Catiua felt it spreading to her as well.

"Herbs and poisons." Was her pleasant reply. She didn't look up, instead sorting through the pouches in particular. Catiua didn't know if Ozma's tone was intended to disturb her, but it had that effect. Catiua responded a bit warily

"This adventure doesn't seem quite as innocent as I originally intended." Another laugh from Ozma. The woman was completely different from when they had spoken earlier in the day; the darkness no longer in her eyes and her face held life. It must have been the difference Catiua had shown whenever Oz had come to visit, contrasting light and dark moods. Catiua was glad Ozma had found a new purpose and reason to her life. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

The comment stopped Ozma and she turned and looked up. Her expression was a bit odd, confused, but happy. Ozma was an interesting woman; she smiled and laughed often, but she rarely showed the smaller, true smiles that signified her happiness. She was open about her anger, but Catiua guessed that much of her anger was simply annoyance and when she was truly angry or upset she was quiet and withdrawn, like she had been with Oz after their library encounter. After a moment the look was gone and she continued as if Catiua hadn't made the comment.

"Have no fear, we're not going to kill Oz." Ozma handed Catiua a small black bottle that looked very new. "This is for you." Catiua gazed at it curiously, noting the liquid inside. There was no label on the concoction and given Ozma's rather blunt description of what the items contained, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what it contained.

"Do I want to know what this does?"

Ozma didn't hesitate in her answer.

"A present for you. It's Belladonna. A traditional beauty enhancer, it widens your pupils to give you an aroused appearance. Men enjoy the look. Overuse can cause permanent damage, so use only for special occasions. This is one of Oz's favorites." Ozma paused. "It can also be used as a poison. I'll show you how to put it in when I'm done here."

Ozma organized the bottles and pouches by color, seeming to know by heart what they contained. Catiua found herself dreadfully curious, despite knowing many of the contents were dangerous.

"And the others? What do they do?"

The Templar replied a bit quietly, as if worried someone would hear. But she spoke with passion, showing a true interest in the art. "The small pile over there I'm making is for Oz. For example this one" Ozma held up a small blue bottle from the pile she had mentioned, "is a plant native to Lodis. When crushed in this way and inhaled it stimulates hormones and causes easier arousal. Or, if you prefer, it will make him lower is inhibitions and self-control."

Catiua was shocked. She knew such plants existed, but that Ozma was willing to use them on her own brother made Catiua uncomfortable.

"I feel like we're molesting him." Her tone was cautious, not wanting to offend Ozma. Ozma didn't seem to care either way and instead replied teasingly.

"You're just now coming to that conclusion?" The question wasn't meant to be answered. "But rather than 'molest' I prefer 'taking advantage of.' Oz is simply getting what he asked for, as well as just a bit more."

Ozma spent a few more moments organizing her vials, bottles, and pouches, putting most of them back into her dresser. The small blue bottle remained, as did a darker red and light green pouch. Ozma put them onto the top of the dresser and dug back through her dresser, this time picking up a smaller bag. From the bag she took out what appeared to be a large needle. Ozma motioned to Catiua and took the small bottle from her.

"Sit down against the pillows and put your head back." Catiua moved up the bed, doing as she was asked and laid back as if going to sleep. "No, farther back. Put a pillow into the crevice of your neck and lean your head over the back. Keep your eyes on the ceiling." Catiua did as she was asked, and her head was very far back. It was a very uncomfortable position, but Ozma seemed to be happy with it. Catiua could feel Ozma moving around beside her and was surprised when the other woman appeared in her field of vision. To her horror, that needle-like object was in her hand approaching Catiua's face. Catiua turned away instinctively and Ozma scolded her gently, lifting her face back and holding her right eye open with one hand.

"I am just going to drip the Belladonna into your eye. The tool is so I do not put too much in. Open your eyes wide. Yes, like that. Now, this might sting." Having the object so close to her eye was unnerving, but Catiua held her ground. The small drop slowly slid off and landed in the center of her eye. Catiua closed her eyes immediately and a small burning sensation spread through them. She tried to wipe at her eye with her hands, but Ozma caught her wrist stopping her. Instead Catiua just blinked and pressed her eyelids closed, unfortunately only causing the pain to spread. After a few moments the pain subsided and Catiua was able to see again. Ozma nodded and held Catiua's other eye open. Catiua was surprised at her own submission to the older woman; as with before, she was willing to accept pain if it meant pleasing Oz. But this was not only pain for herself, as it empowered her and gave her strength over her lover. It hurt just as much the second time when the drop landed, but Catiua didn't attempt to wipe it out

"You're not going to use it?" Catiua asked and Ozma shook her head.

"This night is not about me, I am simply here to help and introduce you to new techniques."

Catiua didn't know how to respond, instead choosing to say the first phrase that came to mind. "Thank you."

"Sister."

"Excuse me?"

"'Thank you, sister.'"

"I-" Catiua paused. A part of her was thrilled; this wasn't the first time Ozma had mentioned 'sister,' meaning that it was no accident and the elder intended for her to be such. The other part of Catiua also noted the firm tone the Commander used, as if she would expect no less than that as her title. It was a tone that did not imply equality, but Catiua's submission. Uncomfortable with being submissive to the other woman, Catiua thought not to correct herself and instead go back to calling her "Dame Ozma," but she couldn't afford to make an enemy out of the Templar, especially when they had just begun their relationship. Finally relenting, Catiua replied "Thank you, sister."

Ozma clasped her hands pleased at Catiua's submission and helped Catiua up off the bed. Her eyes were watering slightly, but she could see without any problem. The room seemed a bit brighter than normal. Ozma, once again leading the way, escorted Catiua back to the guest chambers. Motioning for her to wait, Catiua did so as Ozma walked back into her room. She could hear Ozma moving around, likely going through more of her belongings. It seemed when Ozma did something, she did not do it halfway. Ozma came back just as Catiua was getting impatient, two items in her hands. Catiua recognized them immediately as whips. Ozma held one close, almost possessively, but held the other out to Catiua.

"This is one of my favorite whips, I ask that you take good care of it." Catiua nodded. She had no intention of damaging anything that belonged to Ozma, especially since she knew she hadn't completely earned the other woman's trust. Perhaps this entire evening was a test? Catiua hoped not, for she feared she would fail spectacularly. Ozma held it out gently "Hold it like this." Ozma put her own whip down, showing Catiua a more comfortable and effective way to use it. "This is not a whip meant for damage, but for training. But it will still hurt if wielded incorrectly. I cannot teach you to use a whip well in the hour we have together, but it should not be a problem to get you to use one well enough to make Oz scream. It might even be better if you miss or hit _something_ you weren't intending to. After all, you can just heal him afterwards."

Catiua could hardly believe Ozma's words. She was willing to poison him, seduce him, and now wanted Catiua to "miss" while beating him? This seemed less like an apology from Oz and more like a chance for Ozma to get her vengeance for his words and actions earlier. Catiua was beginning to realize just now much she had underestimated the other woman, but she could also respect her willingness for revenge. After all, Oz had wronged her and she simply wished to make it right again, even if by force.

"Now watch closely, Catiua. We've an hour of practice and I don't want to waste it. We can't have you getting too tired before the main event even begins."

The hour was long and difficult. Catiua was glad for her own healing abilities, for she had not only harmed herself a few times, but her hands had blistered by the time she was done. Ozma seemed to have no problem with blisters, so Catiua assumed she could heal them herself or she had callouses thick enough that the whip simply didn't harm her any longer. At the end of the hour, the only thing Catiua was confident that she could do was hit the whip in the right direction without hurting herself. Ozma had assured Catiua that was all she needed for play, but Catiua felt unskilled and pathetic, especially when compared to how skilled Ozma seemed to be at everything Catiua had no experience in.

As they finished, Ozma took the whip from her and Catiua caught her breath. Ozma gently placed them on the table and pointed to the door. Catiua looked, and noticed two pairs of boots. She assumed one was for her and one for Ozma. Noting that Ozma meant for her to bring the boots over, Catiua frowned. She was a Princess, she shouldn't be acting like a servant! Her frustration died immediately when she realized how respectful and willing to help Ozma had been and immediately regretted the thought. Catiua was a guest and it was her duty to earn the good will of Ozma. Walking over to the boots, she carried both over to the older woman who was sitting at the table, drinking a glass of water. Placing the boots on the ground Catiua sat down. Ozma poured a glass of water for her companion; Catiua thanked her and drank it down far too quickly to be ladylike. A thought occurred to her; she was very uncomfortable asking the elder, for it would show her lack of experience, but knew she might not have a chance later.

". . .Sister." Ozma looked at her. "Please forgive my incredible foolishness, but something has been bothering me."

"Is there a problem?"

"It is something Oz said once." Ozma sighed, as if she knew it was going to be something ridiculous, but said nothing. "Does foreplay truly involve necks, blood, and pain?"

Ozma's laughter rang through the room, a soft chime in the evening wind. "Not normally, no. Foreplay is play with the breasts." She sobered. "Did Oz really tell you that?"

"Yes." Catiua frowned.

"Well, for him it's likely true, foreplay does involve blood and pain, so we will not fault him too much for that little lie."

They retained a comfortable silence for a time after that. The time passed quickly before Ozma spoke again. Both Oz and Ozma seemed to be fond of conversing, more than Catiua was used to.

"There's something you need to know."

Catiua didn't like where the conversation was going from Ozma's voice alone. "Your tone is ominous."

Ozma took another drink of water and put her glass down. She clasped her hands together and rested her chin on them, meeting Catiua's eyes.

"Tonight, I will determine if you've a future with my brother."

Catiua found Ozma's intense stare impossible to meet and turned away, both in anger and frustration. Catiua had been right, this had been a test. She felt a spike of rage flood through her, beyond simple anger. She put her glass of water down, so not to accidentally spill or throw it and took a deep breath. Ozma was smiling at her and it only annoyed Catiua more.

"How surprising" Catiua drawled. "This conversation is unpleasant."

Ozma's reply was not what Catiua was expecting. It was light, almost tender.

"You are good for Oz; you're loyal and will treat him well, but, despite his age, Oz is a stubborn boy." Ozma's toned turned disapproving for a moment as she mentioned Oz's stubborn nature. It then turned to steel as Ozma delivered her ultimatum. "If he accepts what you give him, I will let you have him. If he does not, even if you love him I will not allow your relationship to continue. I will alert the High Commander if you try."

Catiua's rage exploded as she snapped with no thought. "I do not need your permission to be with Oz!" Ozma seemed surprised at Catiua's intensity, but Catiua wasn't paying attention. Ozma would betray them now? After a few moments of silence, Catiua found herself calming down. The blind fury faded from her and she deflated, realizing how foolish her last comment had been. Of course Catiua needed Ozma's "permission," the two were very close siblings after all. It was obvious that when one suffered so did the other, and Catiua knew that if given a choice Oz would likely choose his sister over Catiua. Catiua hoped to change that one day, but for now it was an inevitable truth. Swallowing her pride, or what little was left of it, Catiua mumbled quietly "I-I apologize. I spoke out of turn." She didn't look at the other woman to see her reaction, but shame filled her, along with anger at both herself and Ozma.

The silence dragged for a few moments until Ozma finally replied, annoyance tinging her words. "Your devotion to Oz is to be respected, even if it is foolish, but you misunderstand my intentions. Stop jumping to conclusions." Ozma's tone lightened and she lifted Catiua's face up to meet her eyes. "Oz will only accept pain from those he cares for. Pain terrifies him. Whether he accepts your 'gift' or not will show you how he truly feels." More quietly, as if to herself, Ozma added: "We must pray his own game has gotten the best of him."

Catiua was baffled. Ozma was telling her Oz's secrets and weaknesses right after telling her that there was a possibility that she would not allow her to be with him? The elder seemed intent on confusing her!

"I don't understand. You seemed confident earlier. You asked me to refer to you as 'sister' and now you're telling me that you will not allow me to be with Oz?" Before Catiua's anger could get the best out of her, she silenced herself.

"I would not have accepted Oz's offer from you had I not been confident in my brother's feelings. He likely does not know or understand them himself, let alone have any idea how to act upon them. I am rarely wrong about my brother, and what I think my brother feels for you is confusion and fondness. I've every intention of making his fondness grow. He needs a proper woman to settle down with, even if it might not be easy to get our family or even the High Commander to agree to your relationship."

Catiua digested Ozma's words. She felt her anger completely slip away into a giddy happiness. Oz did care for her! At her reaction she heard Ozma's laughter and Ozma patted Catiua's cheek with the hand that was holding her face up. "I'm glad we understand each other, Catiua. Now, put on your boots. Oz will likely be late on purpose tonight in order to annoy us and I've a few more things to tell you."

Catiua leaned down, corset digging into her uncomfortably as she laced the heavy boots up. Ozma did the same; it was good to see that no matter how elegant she appeared, she still had to deal with the same corset annoyances as Catiua and couldn't speak well while leaning down in such a tight outfit.

As she finished, Ozma picked up a dagger from the table and took out one of her bottles of "herbs." This one contained a liquid, which Ozma gently wiped over the blade of the weapon with a handkerchief. Catiua didn't like it one bit. "You obviously can't hide the dagger on you in an outfit like this." Ozma motioned to herself. "But we need to get the poison" Ozma lifted the small red bottle "into Oz's blood. The other can be inhaled, I will deal with that, but we must cut him for this to take effect. When Oz enters, I will distract him. You push against his back and run your hands down his arms and cut deeply enough to get the poison into him."

Ozma spoke of poisoning her brother as if they were going to have afternoon tea. Catiua wasn't sure whether or not to be disturbed or giggle in delight at Ozma's plot. Catiua did a mixture of both, giggles interrupting her cautious words. "Oz certainly won't be pleased with us."

"There are a great many things we are going to do to Oz this evening that he won't be happy about. I find myself lacking any pity at all. 'Tis for the best." Ozma shrugged. "He will enjoy himself, despite his complaints." She took another drink of water and Catiua followed suit.

"Now, there are-" A loud knock sounded through the room. "Damn! He's early."

"I thought you knew your brother well." Catiua replied dryly, earning her a bad look from the Templar.

"It seems we're all up for surprises tonight. Go hide over here" Ozma pointed to a small alvoe near the door "so you can get the poison into him. I'll have to tell you more as we go along. Hopefully you can come up with some ideas of your own as well." As Catiua passed, Ozma offhandedly grabbed her arm and removed the pin holding her hair and part down.

Another loud knock sounded through the quiet room, this time more impatient than before. The women looked to each other and Ozma walked over to the door. Catiua quietly rushed over to her "hiding place" grasping the dagger. Ozma gave her a confident nod and opened the door. Catiua couldn't see behind the door, but she could hear the silk in Ozma's tone and surprise in Oz's.

"Sister. I am surprised to see you looking so. . .nice." Catiua could imagine Oz's eyes running over his sister and she felt jealousy course through her. What happened to Oz doing this to "apologize?" Catiua found herself unsurprised at the lack of apology, not because of Oz's pride, but it seemed that Ozma was right in that Oz was using Catiua to some extent. Catiua's annoyance flared at both of the siblings, but in particular Oz. Perhaps tonight would be more pleasant for her than she had originally thought. Oz's next comment surprised her. "And where is Catiua?"

Ozma made a dismissive sound and Catiua saw her pulling Oz back from the doorway. Oz shut the door behind him and Ozma boldly encircled her arms around Oz's waist, causing Oz to freeze.

"Don't worry about her, brother."

"While I've no complaints, your actions worry me. I'm sorry sister, for my words before."

Ozma seemed annoyed and Catiua slowly walked up behind Oz as he was distracted by his sister. He noticed her presence far too late and Catiua grasped him from behind, causing Ozma to laugh from the front. Catiua pressed her breasts into Oz's back and leaned her hips into him. Catiua ran one hand down his face, clasping her hands around Oz's neck.

"I'm right here, Oz."

Oz straightened up at first, shocked and annoyed at the touch, but to her surprise, and she could tell Ozma's as well, Oz relaxed in her arms. Doing as Ozma asked, she ran her hand down Oz's arms playfully. He seemed to be enjoying this, with Ozma playing in the front and she from the back. As her hand reached Oz's, she stroked the top softly and Oz grasped it almost instinctively. Catiua found herself enjoying Oz's light submission and was almost hesitant to harm him, but knew this wouldn't last long, she ran her hand back up her arm, under his sleeve, and cut deeply.

Oz released an angry hiss and pulled away.

"Oops!" Ozma laughed at Catiua's comment, earning her a glare from Oz. Catiua didn't move and curled up against her back again as Ozma spoke.

"We've been waiting for a long time, brother." Ozma tried to pull him along and Oz remained stationary, angry at his sister.

"I've enough of your games already, sister."

"'Twas your game in the first place, Oz. I've just decided to play along. Certainly you can't leave now, not after all the effort Catiua and I put into getting ready"

"I've apologized already, but if you're going to continue harming me I am going to leave."

Ozma made a show of looking sad and sighing, glancing at Catiua. Catiua, clinging to Oz's arm gently and healing it, meet her look with a smile and Ozma turned back to her brother.

"Very well, I know you don't like it. Catiua, go escort Oz onto the bed and take his clothes off, I will bring some water."

Oz finally relented when Ozma walked away and walked into the bedroom. Catiua could feel Oz's gaze on her as she removed his clothes. Catiua suppressed a giggle at the revelation that he did, indeed wear a corset. She turned her around and was untying the top ribbons as Ozma returned. She had two glasses and handed one to Oz. Gently pushing Catiua out of the way, Ozma handed the second glass to her. "Drink." Catiua thanked her and took a sip. The cool liquid was refreshing and Catiua realized how nervous she had been. Taking another small sip Catiua walked over to Ozma's bedstand and put the glass on top. As she turned back, Ozma called over to her.

"Catiua, go bring that chair in."

Oz's reply was cautious, with anger hiding beneath the surface. He took a drink as to calm himself as he replied. "What do we need a chair for? The bed is right here."

"Oh, hush brother." Ozma practically purred as Catiua walked out. Catiua missed the rest of Ozma's reply as she walked out and picked up the chair, doing a mixture of carrying and sliding it, attempting not to damage her clothes or the floor. When she walked back in, Oz was in his undergarments alone and Ozma was trying to get him to remove them, with little success.

"Sit in the chair, Oz."

"Absolutely not."

"I will not tolerate this from you brother, not tonight. Sit in the chair." Ozma's tone was final and, despite Oz's firm defiance, he closed his eyes for a moment and walked over, sitting in the chair. His body language was mopey and his face angered. He wasn't even looking at Catiua; it was as if she didn't exist. Once again Catiua felt her jealousy flare for the older woman who so easily held Oz's attention. She had to practically beg for it, when Ozma had it in less than a word.

"Catiua, go into my chest there and pick out three ropes, if you would?" Catiua made a low hiss at the firm orders. She didn't disobey but she was getting angry and her glare told Ozma so. Ozma returned the look with a small smile, as if it was to make her feel better.

"I do not like this, Ozma." Catiua opened the chest, trying her best to ignore Oz's worried tone.

"You do not have to like it, brother." The ropes were on top, and Catiua gently closed the lid to the chest after pulling them out. "I do not like what you did with Catiua, yet you did it anyway. Now it is time for punishment." As if adding to the finality of Ozma's statement, Catiua handed the ropes to Ozma, who walked around behind her brother.

Despite his words of frustration, Oz did not attempt to move or get up as Ozma tied both his hands and feet. In particular, she tied his feet to the legs of the chair. Catiua was impressed at her thoroughness and speed, making her assume Ozma had done this before. As Ozma stood, she looked down at Oz's undergarments disapprovingly, but did nothing about them. She finally tied his chest to the chair tightly. Oz grunted, his jaw set in anger. Despite that, his body seemed more relaxed and his eyes were slightly softer than they had been a few moments before.

As she finished Ozma slowly, pleasantly walked into the other room. Oz was avoiding looking at Catiua, but his anger was fading, being replaced with worry. Catiua didn't like seeing such a distressed look in Oz's eyes. Ozma returned with both of her whips, placing Catiua's "training" whip onto the bed behind her and taking her "favored" whip, a strange thing with large thorns running down it. Ozma motioned for Catiua to step back, and Catiua did so quickly, knowing Ozma was very dangerous. She had learned the hard way a little more than an hour before.

"Enough games, sister." Oz ground out. He refused to meet her eyes or even look up. Ozma cracked her whip in the air over his head, causing Oz to visibly flinch.

"Speak only when spoken to, brother!" Ozma declared and hit him hard across the legs. Oz grunted and turned his head up in anger. His eyes were blazing. Ozma refused to tolerate the look and quickly hit him three more times, once over the chest, once over his arms, and another time over his lower thighs. Every place she hit large red marks. Where the small spikes pierced his flesh, small droplets of blood drained.

"Stop, sister." Oz murmured quietly.

"I said be silent!" Ozma hit him again, more quickly than Catiua could count, even from the distance she could see droplets of blood flying. Ozma aimed high now, hitting his neck, chest and face, somehow able to avoid his eyes while also not sparing any part of Oz's body.

"Please sister!" Oz's voice was weaker now. Despite what he had done to her, she felt her heart go out to him. But she still did not move. Ozma didn't bother demanding his obedience this time, instead she stopped and gently folded her whip. Catiua felt Ozma draw her power and a small sheet of Ice covered the outside of the weapon. Catiua was fascinated at the enchantment and watched as Ozma continued. Where the cool whip hit, Oz's body turned more red, but less blood was drawn. After what seemed like a half an hour, Oz finally whimpered and grunted, composure lost. Ozma's hits became more frequent then, and Oz released small gasps along with his other sounds. To her own horror, Catiua found herself enjoying the sound of Oz's gasps, each one sending a warm tingle through her. But in conflict, she hated the two small tears were forming in Oz's eyes. Oz was strong enough not to let them fall, but he was near his breaking point. Ozma saw it as well and continued with fury; Oz's body was entirely bloody now, and his undergarments were torn to shreds. There was no arousal in his body, as Catiua would have hoped, only fear. Oz gasped out a single quiet ". . .sister. . .no. . ." and Catiua couldn't take it anymore.

Rushing in front of Ozma's whip as it came down, Catiua blocked Oz's body and fell on top of him, causing both she and Oz to tumble onto the floor. In a last minute defense response, Oz curled his head down, neck to his chest in hopes of avoiding damage. Despite that, his head was gently forced back when they landed, Catiua could tell he was disoriented from it hitting the stone. Catiua didn't even feel the burn of where Ozma's whip had hit her, instead focusing on healing Oz's wounds. She ran her hands all over his body. Ozma stood behind Catiua and could hear her sitting down on the bed. Despite being a ridiculous position, Catiua spread her legs over Oz's stomach, knees resting on the ground around him. It gave her a firm, controlled view over Oz's body, letting her hands run over the welts, bruises, and open wounds. Catiua very gently traced her fingers over the closing wounds and was surprised when Oz made sounds of pleasure. His eyes were closed and his head was back; after a few moments, she felt Oz's arousal touching her back.

Was this what the elder woman had planned all along? Catiua didn't know, she found Oz remarkably distracting. She didn't know what had come over her, but she was running her hands through the sticky blood on his body. On his chest a small, shallow pool had formed and Catiua leaned over it, drawing the blood around with her finger. As Catiua played Oz's breaths grew quicker, and she found herself teasing him just to see his responses. His body felt good under her hands and she wanted to explore. Her mind was so focused on Oz that she forget his siter's presence. As she leaned over his face, Oz finally opened his eyes and met hers; the pain in his eyes was gone and replaced with warmth. Catiua found herself licking her lips softly and leaning down over him ready to kiss him until a loud, incredibly obnoxious call disrupted her.

"Catiua, enough." Catiua immediately turned to see Ozma standing beside her. "Heal yourself and get off Oz. We're keeping him on the floor for now." Catiua frowned and Oz made a displeased hiss at the interruption, but Catiua gently got up, remembering that this was punishment for Oz. She couldn't reach the wound on her back, but healing it to stop it from bleeding was easy enough, she would use a mirror later to more thoroughly heal the marks and punctures. Catiua found herself extremely disappointed at not being able to touch him anymore. Ozma handed Catiua the training whip and declared loudly.

"It's your turn Catiua." Oz frowned in response.

"You wouldn't dare. I will not allow it!"

Ozma ignored him motioning for Catiua to do the same. She turned away, and Ozma murmured quietly, so that Oz couldn't hear. "Remember what I told you earlier? This is where you prove yourself. Enchant your whip with your light magic so that it heals each hit. He will last longer that way and take pleasure in your pain. If he talks too much, I will silence him. Remember, if Oz truly does not want you to harm him, he will not allow it. He is like this because he chooses to be." The comment baffled Catiua, but she did not question it. "Watch the way his body reacts, you'll see where he is most sensitive. Don't always target those parts, let them recover before going back to them. Avoid his head for now; when you are more experienced you may bloody his face."

"Women!" Oz sneered; the two ignored him. "Always plotting. Females are not to be trusted. Never again, sister!" Ozma seemed amused and shook her head. Catiua was tempted to ask how many times he had said that in the past, but decided against it, knowing the answer would likely be how many times Ozma and Oz bedded each other.

"Don't worry Oz," Catiua replied pleasantly as she turned around. "I'm not very good at this, so you'll just have to guide me." Oz suddenly withdrew. Ozma's own experience with a whip made her know exactly the right strength, and where, to hit, but Catiua's would be less controlled, therefore more dangerous. This was something all three in the room knew, and making Ozma's own "game" a warmup.

Doing as Ozma said and enchanting her whip Ozma took a few steps back and walked over to the fallen chair. With a booted foot, she gently stepped onto Oz's no-longer aroused penis and scrotum, causing him to wince and turn away, looking at Catiua. Oz's eyes ran up and down her body, and Catiua was shocked at his audacity when he openly ogled her breasts. His open desire for her body made Catiua realize she she enjoyed the attention, even if negative comments, from the man on the ground below she and Ozma.

Oz squirmed a bit and Catiua stopped delaying, finally hitting Oz hard across the chest causing him to grunt in shock. Ozma smiled at her, approvingly. The red welt healed quickly and Oz frowned. Catiua was fascinated by his body's reaction and found herself wanting to see more. She slapped her whip down on him three more times, only to have Oz make annoyed gasps. The sound was pleasant, but most of all Catiua found she enjoyed the look of passionate anger in Oz's eyes. That she could invoke such emotion made her shiver in pleasure.

"Please Catiua, don't do it!" oz murmured mockingly. Catiua was annoyed. How dare he! Ozma noted her anger and stepped heavily down onto his penis, causing Oz to squirm and close his mouth, suppressing a gasp.

"Enough brother, this is not about you. Accept what you are given and be silent." The comment confused both Oz and Ozma, but surprisingly, Oz did go silent, instead glaring at both women. Ozma had an extremely self-satisfied look on her face. Catiua found she preferred Oz's glare and continued. She saw what Ozma had mentioned; certain spots were more tender to hit than others, causing him to wince and draw away. The way his body quivered when she hit the spots just right made Catiua's breath catch. She was beginning to see why Ozma enjoyed this game so.

Oz soon began to make pleasant sounds in response to Catiua's hits, only amplified as his sister ground down on his penis with her heavy boot. She particularly enjoyed his gasps. Oz seemed to realize Catiua was taking pleasure in this as well and bit out, as Catiua was catching her breath. "You're just as bad as me; it seems you enjoy giving more than my sister!" Catiua hit him as hard as she could against the chest, causing him to cough violently. But it only caused Oz to laugh in response, Ozma frowned softly as she looked Catiua up and down. Catiua ignored both, her body warming in pleasure at Oz's reaction. She didn't even bother paying attention to Ozma beyond noticing the elder woman had withdrawn her foot, a frown crossing her features. Oz was moaning softly in pain and pleasure at each strike, causing Catiua to realize he was aroused. Fascinated by the reaction, Catiua continued beating him taking pleasure at his confused quivers, until Ozma walked behind her, stopping her arm. Catiua turned in frustration as Ozma took the whip away.

"That's enough. Both of you." Her tone was surprisingly sharp and annoyed and Catiua wasn't sure what caused the reaction. She had been having fun with Catiua a few moments before, but when Oz had become aroused the elder had gotten angry. Catiua didn't understand the problem.

With the pain stopped, Oz finally took a few deep breaths and Catiua found herself breathing hard, sweating. The desire to run her hands over Oz's body, poking at his newly learned weak points almost overwhelmed her. Before she could do anything, Ozma leaned over her brother and gently untied him. Oz very slowly got up, careful to avoid dizziness from moving too quickly. As Ozma moved back towards the bed, she grasped Catiua's hand and drew her over along with her almost forcefully. As Oz stood, Ozma pointed to the bed.

"Please me, brother."

Catiua once again felt herself overwhelmed with jealousy. Every time Catiua felt she was gaining some control over the situation, and of Oz, Ozma would stop her and force Oz's attention away from Catiua and onto her. Ozma was beginning to grate her and Catiua did not understand why Oz wanted to her to join them for the night. Especially now that Ozma was very purposely taking Oz away from her.

Oz seemed a bit happier and almost literally jumped onto Ozma. Catiua slide to the side lazily, taking a drink of the water Ozma had gotten for her earlier. She turned back and saw Oz playing with his sister's panties and turned away, annoyed. She wouldn't have any problems if Ozma had invited her to please her as well, but instead she stayed to the side, leaning back. After a moment, she heard Oz cough and turned immediately over. She noticed Ozma gently place her little blue bottle back under her pillow and Catiua resisted the urge to giggle. Ah, so that was her game. Oz frowned.

"What was that?"

"Calm yourself Oz, I know you're grumpy, but trust me, that will make this all the more fun. Now enough, put yourself into me at once."

Despite her jealously, Catiua turned lazily and watched the two, finishing off her water that filled 3/4 of the glass. She gulped it down as she watched the two, Oz on top. It was very much like her dreams, with Ozma guiding her brother, demanding him please her in ways she liked. She watched how Ozma worked with him, seeing what Oz liked as well. Despite her intense jealousy, the situation was a learning experience that she found to be remarkably useful.

Oz's pleasure was short lived, however, as Ozma seemed frustrated. She slapped Oz away, moving out from under him and over to Catiua. Ozma spoke in a displeased tone as she looked over Catiua, ignoring Oz entirely now.

"Stop, Oz." She waved him off and he stayed on the other side of the bed, frowning. Catiua thought his appearance was adorable; he looked like a sad, lonely puppy. Had Ozma not been between them, Catiua would have gone and curled up against him touching his face and making him feel less rejected. The thought of curling into him was remarkably appealing. Ozma continued, unaware of Catiua's thoughts. "Catiua, despite his pleas otherwise, my brother is really quite terrible at pleasing a woman. I know we are relatively disinterested in each other, but I can guarantee that you will be able to do to me what my brother cannot." Ozma's tone hardened and she spread her legs. "Now, please me." More quietly, Ozma murmured to Catiua. "Give him some time for the drug to take effect. He's normally not able to finish without causing pain to others, and the herb will take care of that particular issue."

Catiua nodded, understanding. She was a bit nervous, as she had never done such a thing before. She knew how to please herself, but another woman? Catiua wasn't even interested in her. Despite that, Catiua lowered her head, spreading Ozma's labia majora with her fingers and trying to find a position comfortable for herself. Ozma was already wet, and Catiua's tongue slid easily around. It was easy to explore the more familiar female anatomy. Catiua resisted the urge to lick the entrance to Ozma's vagina to taste where Oz's penis had been, instead focusing on the clitoris, where Catiua knew she herself enjoyed being pleased. She moved her tongue around slowly at first, stroking all of the crevices around the sides of the vagina in a "warm-up" before moving onto her clitoris. Ozma leaned into Catiua, showing she was enjoying the feeling. Despite just moments ago feeling angry, Catiua found herself lightening up, enjoying Ozma's very presence. She felt almost giddy and went at pleasing Ozma with pleasure. At her ferocity, she looked up, noticing Ozma removed her breast from the top of her corset and was rubbing at it, breathing heavily. As Catiua's tongue circled and played at Ozma's clitoris, she felt the woman spasm softly beneath her, sometimes shivering when Catiua hit the spot nicely.

"If you two don't need me, I am going to leave." Oz interrupted the two, seemingly annoyed at being ignored.

Catiua looked up, frowning slightly, and Ozma sighed. Ozma motioned for Catiua to stop and Catiua gently wiped the sides of her mouth off with the back of her hand. Ozma's taste remained in her mouth and Catiua found herself missing the touch of the other woman already.

Feeling amazingly bold, Catiua climbed right over Ozma and encircled Oz's neck with her arms, curling up against him. He was warm and his very presence caused her heart to beat quickly. To Catiua's surprise, her presence seemed to have a similar effect on Oz and she felt his chest rise sharply beside her. She resisted the urge to run her hands over him, instead she offhandedly picked off flakes of dried blood that remained over his body from Ozma's whip. Though her own whip had removed most, some small ones remained and just her touch was enough to make Oz shiver. She felt surprisingly light-headed, focusing only on Oz's touch, it was as if nothing else existed. Oz's arms encircled her, reaching around her back under he nighshift in attempt to release her corset's strings. It took Catiua a moment, but she gently pushed him away, taking a breath, Oz made a displeased face, trying to grasp at her again, and Catiua held his hand, running it up and down his arms as she turned angrily to Ozma.

"The water! You poisoned the water!"

Ozma laughed in response, and Catiua found herself realizing she had underestimated the elder woman. She had assumed they were only going to drug Oz, but not her as well. her anger floated away after a moment when Oz started touching her again. She found that she simply didn't care that Ozma had done it, instead focusing on how her body tingled wherever Oz's fingers touched her. In fact, she was beginning to appreciate it.

Oz's mouth was running down her neck now and Catiua held him to her. Caiua found herself stripping off the outer nightshift with difficulty, as Oz was determined to put his face into her breasts. Oz felt good, and Catiua licked at him in response, tasting the sweat the coved his body. He smelled so good. She brought her face up to his hair, smelling his wash. It was a cool, feminine smell, Catiua couldn't place it, but it was a plant smell she was familiar with. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, it was gone, for Oz was trying to remove her panties and his hands on her thighs just felt so nice. Despite how much taller he was than her and how calloused his hands were from weapons, they were surprisingly delicate and pale. Catiua's hands went down Oz's body, gently reaching for his penis until she was pulled roughly away by Ozma. Oz made an annoyed sound and his hands ran down her leg from a distance. Catiua, annoyed, looked to Ozma. Ozma was glaring at her, but Catiua found herself unaffected, instead gently touching the other woman's face.

Ozma pushed Catiua away in anger and got off the bed. Catiua watched her sadly for a moment, upset that Ozma didn't seem to want to join in, instead opting to pick up the chair on the floor and sit in it, watching. Catiua found her attention draw away and Oz had reached her once again. His arms swept her up, making sure she couldn't escape again. Rolling over on top of her, Oz looked down, eyes caressing her body, hands trailing down her corset gently. He seemed to enjoy the feel of it. His other hand ran through the hair that Ozma has styled similarly to her own.

"You look good like this."

Was all he whispered, his voice light and his motions slow. He brought his mouth down onto hers and Catiua parted her lips, practically screaming in pleasure when Oz met hers. At her ferocity, Catiua could feel Oz breathe more heavily atop her. Catiua circled one hand around his back, the other between them, pressing stroking his chest. He was unbearably warm and Catiua found herself gasping for breath against Oz's mouth. Oz finally relented, and Catiua whispered, running her hand up behind Oz's neck and into his hair as she spoke. She didn't quite know what she was saying, letting her emotions speak for her.

"You feel good, I want all of you."

"You belong to me." Was Oz's reply, ignoring Catiua's words entirely, instead focusing on the sound of her voice. Catiua didn't know if she was dreaming, but she thought she heard Ozma's annoyed sigh coming from beyond Oz. The thought was gone quickly, as Oz enveloped her entire being, allowing for no distractions.

Removing her hand from his chest she slid it around Oz like her other hand, and instead down his back, near hips, pushing down softly, telling him exactly what she wanted. Oz complied without thought, adjusting himself and entering her. It wasn't painful or uncomfortable like either of the times before and the simply entry of his penis caused her to shiver and her vagina to spasm in pleasure. Catiua tried to force the corset off, as it was making her breaths shallow, but Oz's hands caught hers in disapproval. He liked how it looked and didn't want her to remove it; Catiua sighed, instead taking fast shallow breaths, trying to keep up with her heightened heart rate.

At his entry, Oz immediately began pushing her. He pushed against her with such force that the pillows holding Catiua up were forced back and Catiua was pushed up against the headboard, causing it to hit the wall with each motion. Catiua and Oz ignored the sound, too focused on each other to care. Each time Oz pushed into her, Catiua let out a gasp, her abdomen warm and the muscles contracting and spasming as Oz pushed quickly, seeking release. A warmth ran through her and Catiua's mind was only on the slick penis that continually pushed back and forth, her hips moving with him in pleasure.

"Calm yourself, Oz, you're going to spend yourself too quickly." was Ozma's annoyed remark, causing both Oz and Catiua to temporarily stop, gasping for breath. Oz made a low annoyed sound but did slow, instead forcing them both into a sitting position, Catiua's legs spread wide around him. The position felt nice, giving Oz easier access. His slowed pace was pleasant, but she needed more. Catiua's body and murky mind wanted nothing more than instant pleasure and she declared loudly enough for Ozma to hear.

"More. 'Tis not enough."

Much to Catiua's surprise, Oz listened to her over his sister. Oz murmured something Catiua didn't quite hear, or understand, in agreement and increased his pace. The position was odd enough that Catiua couldn't hold her arms around Oz, instead she held herself up, body rocking back and forth. The distance between them limited their touch, which was upsetting, but the way Oz looked, sweat covered, features focused on please, but surprisingly warm and gentle eyes. The very back of Catiua's mind knew she would never see the expression again as it was Ozma's poisons at work, but Catiua didn't care, she loved Oz, she loved what he was doing to her and making her feel, and she even loved Ozma for letting all of this happen.

Catiua's own wetness and Oz's pre-ejaculation was making the sliding between bodies fast and easy. Catiua could feel warm spikes of desire running through her, muscles contracting, her legs stretching. She leaned her bead back, but before she could finish she felt Oz release and stop. Making an angry noise a her own disrupted pleasure, Catiua leaned back immediately onto the pillows. Oz wasn't removing his penis, but Catiua didn't care. Almost instinctively, Catiua hand went to her clitoris, massaging it frantically as to not lose her arousal. Oz, seeing her, removed her hand did it himself. He wasn't as familiar with Catiua's body and not entirely sure what she enjoyed, but Catiua was close enough to orgasm that even Oz's inexperienced touches brought her gasping in climax. As she finished, Oz gently exited her and curled up beside her. He gently touched her arm, running his hand up and down, stroking her hips and brushing his fingers through her sweat-touched hair. She didn't know how long they remained like this, but Catiua found herself completely relaxed and comfortable in Oz's arms, as if her worried ceased to exist and time had stopped, even if only temporarily. Oz eventually slowed, curling his arms around her as he fell asleep.

This was the first time Catiua had ever seen Oz so vulnerable. She looked him over cautiously; he look innocent, feminine, even. His hair was a mess, but it was playful and Catiua found herself moving it off of his face. Ozma walked over and gently prided Oz's arm off, giving Catiua a blank look. Catiua could tell the other woman was frustrated, but Ozma was respectful enough to keep whatever bothered her to herself."

In her drug and hormone dazed state of mind, Catiua moved over to Ozma, who helped her off the bed. Ozma covered Catiua in a robe and murmured as she walked her over to the door, giving her water. Catiua took a long drink.

"The Templars will escort you to your room. Go to sleep, shower in the morning. Be sure to drink this water, you do not want to be dehydrated. I'll speak with Oz later. He'll treat you better, I promise."

Ozma gently pushed Catiua out of her room, ordering the Templars. The entire walk back to her chambers was a daze and offhandedly thanked the Templars upon her arrival. Catiua fell asleep almost as soon as her head fell onto her pillow, her last thought was that she still hadn't taken off her boots.

* * *

><p>When she awoke the next morning, Catiua felt like dying, but was also happier than she could remember being. Her head pounding from whatever Ozma had drugged her with, but the memory of Oz's touch, and his pleasant screams under her whip, the back her mind commented, pleased her greatly. Ozma's robe still covered her, but Catiua worked the strings off the corset with some difficulty from her morning grogginess. She was gentle, as it had been Ozma's gift and she didn't want to damage it. As Catiua sat up, clearing her eyes, she noticed a small bundle on her nightstand, with a letter atop. Upon closer inspection, the bundle appeared to be Catiua's clothes, undergarments, and the sheer nightshift Ozma had given her.<p>

To Catiua's surprise, the letter was an apology from Ozma, saying she regretted her rudeness the night before and hoped Catiua would forgive her in time. She also thanked Catiua for her 'help' - Catiua frowned at Ozma's wording - with Oz, and assured her that Oz would be a much more obedient boy from now on.

Catiua frowned at the last part; she didn't want Oz to be an obedient boy. The back of her mind whispered that she was lying and she would very much enjoy it if Oz was submissive to her as he was to Ozma, but Catiua pushed the thought down. If Ozma could help their relationship's progress, then she didn't mind the other woman's intervention. Ozma's comment about Oz's games still disturbed her and she didn't know if it was true or not, but Ozma seemed to have dropped the subject and was willing to help the two move into a proper relationship that did not include crying, beating, or torture. Once again Catiua's voice spoke up and told her she might enjoy it if Oz tortured her, just a bit more. The look in his eyes, and the feel when he had forced himself into her, had been amazing.

Getting up, angry at herself - her mind was being ridiculous with its unwanted fantasies, Catiua pulled off her robe gently and finished unlacing her corset. She placed it on top of the pile with her other clothes and removed her boots, putting them beside her bed. Catiua walked over into her private bath chamber and, after relieving herself in her chamber pot, Catiua was surprised to find her bath already warm and steaming. It seemed Catiua had slept in. Gently testing the water and finding it slightly cooler than normal, Catiua stepped right in and immediately started cleaning herself with her scrub brush and washing her hair, parting it back in the center like it was normally. Catiua scrubbed softly at her vagina, cleaning the dried sperm and oils from her skin. She knew she would need to get used to it, but it felt odd having someone else's fluids inside of her.

Finally finished cleaning herself, Catiua was surprised when she stepped out and found her servants waiting, along with an impatient and heavily armored Ozma. Ozma seemed annoyed at having to wait and shooed the servants off. Catiua, covered only in her bath towel, eyed the other woman curiously.

"Good morning, Dame Ozma."

"Sister." was Ozma's clipped, annoyed reply, as if she had already had this conversation. Catiua sighed.

"Good morning, sister, is there a problem?" Catiua motioned to the woman's armor.

"The whisperers bring about unpleasant news. Worry not about it, for it doesn't concern you. I've asked Tartaros to assign you to me, and he has accepted. You will not longer have to deal with those men stalking you about all day long."

Caiua was confused. If Ozma knew she would be watching Catiua, why write a letter apologizing? The answer was apparent; Ozma was uncomfortable speaking the words to her. Ozma's pride was wounded from being ignored the night before, and she had acted out of jealousy and spite, yet she could not admit she was wrong aloud. Catiua understood the feeling, for she had almost acted similarly when she saw Oz with Ozma.

"Thank you, sister." Ozma nodded approvingly as Catiua spoke. "I apologize for my actions with Oz. I was. . .not in my right mind, as I'm sure you're aware." Ozma nodded and they shared a look of understanding, accepting each other's apologies. Catiua was pleased to see the dark look almost gone from her eyes; Ozma did not look like the depressed, broken woman she had seen just yesterday. It seemed that Ozma had found her light as well.

"But it helped you relax, and Oz as well. This morning, Oz was in denial until I reminded him how very much he seemed to enjoy his beating from you. Unfortunately, after our, ah, _discussion,_ now I fear he will jump you in public or even cut off the hands of any who touch you."

"He never really seemed the possessive type when around me."

"That's because you don't know him. You love him despite this," Ozma paused, motioning towards Catiua's bed where the servants had laid out a clean dress and undergarments. They would speak as Catiua put her clothes on. "And that is why Oz will love you. He's also dreadfully lonely; I will not let allow him to harm me, but apparently you enjoy that part of his play." Catiua frowned at Ozma's wording. She most certainly hadn't enjoyed having her hands hammered into the wall or having the skin on her back removed, but she had enjoyed Oz's touch paired with it.

Catiua sighed, a bit scared to ask, but Ozma's words had been bothering her.

"You mentioned a game. . ." Catiua pulled on her boots as Ozma helped her button her black dress.

"Do not worry, he will not do it anymore. Oz is such a foolish thing." Ozma murmured it fondly, despite the harsh words. "He came in with the intention of breaking you, but you broke him. A fair trade, I imagine, for what he put you through. I ask you don't hold it against him. If he tries again, put him in his place and come to me, then we will both deal with him."

Catiua was both furious and relieved. She wanted to slap Oz, perhaps beat him again with Ozma's whip, for playing with her heart, but also wanted to grasp him for accepting her in return.

Catiua walked over to her dressed and pulled out a brush, gently trying to untangle the wet snarls. Ozma stayed back for a time before finally getting annoyed, taking the brush from Catiua's hands and pulling it out of her hair.

"What did I tell you? You're to do your hair as Oz enjoys."

Ozma was not gentle with Catiua's wet tangles, pulling and brushing until she deemed Catiua's hair appropriate and gently putting the brush back onto her vanity table. Catiua looked around for her hat, only to have Ozma pull her along into her guest room, where breakfast was already prepared on the table. It seemed Catiua had slept longer than she thought.

Ozma sat across from Catiua as the younger woman ate. Every few minutes, Ozma would take a drink of the water on the table, but remained silent. Ozma had a severe expression, thoughtful but pained; it wasn't as dark as the expression from before, but it worried Catiua nonetheless.

"Are you well, sister?"

"I suppose. My problems cannot simply be solved by finding meaning and accepting what cannot be changed." Catiua didn't quite understand, but listened intently. "I am on the path to recovery and I will not allow my emotions to sway my judgment again."

"That's a bold declaration." Catiua scolded the elder softly. Ozma seemed to agree.

"It is what I must tell myself, for now." Ozma's tone told Catiua not to question her anymore, and Catiua obliged, finishing her breakfast.

Ozma got up and motioned for Catiua to follow. Catiua frowned.

"I'm to wait for Tartaros."

Ozma didn't seem to care either way. "You're my charge now; the High Champion trusts that I will see no harm come to you." Catiua didn't like the response and felt like Ozma was hiding something, but followed the elder. Ozma pointed to Catiua's sword. "The threat of danger looms." was all she said and Catiua desperately wanted to question her more. Sliding the leather sheath over has shoulder and belting it about her waist, Catiua nodded, causing Ozma to pull her along.

The entire situation was making Catiua incredibly nervous. Bakram soldiers were strewn throughout the castle on high alert. To Catiua's surprise there were many less Loslorien Templars than usually patrolled the familiar halls and she wondered where they had disappeared to. Ozma didn't seem to notice, or she simply hid it well, but Catiua found herself on edge; the atmosphere in the castle was electrifying.

Ozma finally entered a small room, off to the side of the great hall. It was a meeting room and had once been used for strategies by the lords who once resided in the castle. It seemed familiar for a moment, but it hit her, this was the room where she, Leonar, and Denam had first met Tartaros and Balxephon, before Balmamusa. Ozma firmly closed the doors behind her and sat down in a chair. Catiua wandered around the room on habit, glancing out the window. The sight outside caused her to stop and take a step back. The training area was empty, weapons away and the only soldiers there were the patrols.

"Sister, what's going on?"

Ozma sighed. "The whisperers speak that the Resistance is on the march. I encountered them in Rhime little more than a week ago, it seems they plan to take Phidoch." At the mention of Rhime, Ozma hesitated and her expression darkened, but the vulnerable look was gone in a flash. "The High Champion has moved much of Loslorien to our new headquarters, north of Heim, but we need to remain here in case it is a bluff. Your brother" Catiua made an annoyed sound at that, which Ozma ignored "is charismatic, but his troops are varied and their ideals conflicting. We've attempted to sew the seeds of disarray and doubt, but we are unsure if they will take hold. We must hold our position in Phidoch for as long as possible. Fleeing, even with you, is a loss we cannot afford."

"I didn't realize the situation was this serious." Catiua murmured, more to herself than anyone. Fear, doubt, hesitation, and even regret formed within her. She was not the cause of this battle, but her presence alone would lengthen the pointless struggle.

"There are a great many things Tartaros does not tell his loyal little puppet." Ozma spoke with venom, letting Catiua know of her disapproval. Catiua suddenly felt a spike of annoyance at Ozma's tone.

"You would judge me? I do what I must for my country."

"Yet you are willing to accept being nothing but a slave and a puppet, walking upon the strings of your master. It is natural to bow to Lodis, but you only do so because you were told to, not because you made the decision yourself." Ozma's frustration seemed to be bursting; despite their recent understand for each other, it seemed Ozma had very strong disapproval for Catiua's actions. "You speak of doing it for your country, but have you asked the people what they seek? I'm of mind you're doing this simply to spite your brother!" Ozma let out a low breath, regaining her composure and attempting to lighten her tone. "You must think your actions through, Catiua. Petition to the High Champion for proper treatment of your people, show him your loyalty and perhaps you may even act as your own regent. But as you are now, you will never receive the respect you deserve."

Catiua stumbled back at Ozma's words, shocked she would imply it was selfishness that drove her actions. But as Ozma continued, Catiua's urge to hit the elder dulled. She was correct, of course. Catiua was simply acting as a loyal pet and tool to Tartaros. She had gone from being one tool to another, and as a tool, at least Denam had respected her as a person. Catiua felt a surge of anger, both at herself and the Lodissians; this had been her struggle before she had met with Oz; to show strength was difficult, to show knowledge of politics along with it even more so. Catiua's own conflicts roared back to the surface, but this time, she understood what she must do with them. If there was one lesson her new relationship had taught her it was that self confidence and strength were the key to success.

"You're right." Catiua sighed, sitting down at the table across from Ozma. "I admit, I'm very new to this."

To her surprise, Ozma smiled again. "That's what I am here for; if I must raise you to be a proper woman, so be it."

The women were silent at that, but it was a warm, friendly silence; every once in a while, Catiua would sneak looks at Ozma, whose gaze remained on the window. It was times like these that the similarities and differences between the two stood out; Ozma was calm and composed, elegant in her worry, where Catiua would snap in anger, her face flustered and body tense. Ozma reminded Catiua of Denam; rather than show their fears and pain to the world, they kept it locked up, suffering silently alone where none could see it. It made Catiua desire to go over and hug the elder, for Catiua could tell she still suffered, despite her strength.

Catiua didn't know how long they sat there, but a loud knock on the door broke the silence. Ozma spoke confidently, telling the person to enter. A Bakram warrior came in and respectfully bowed to both of them.

"Dame Ozma, Sir Balxephon requests your presence."

Ozma gave him a flat look. "Impossible, I'm to watch the Princess on the High Champion's orders."

"Forgive me, Dame, but the High Commander was in the room when Balxephon gave me the order."

Ozma said nothing for a time. "You will watch her until someone else arrives." she ordered the Bakram before turning to Catiua. "I apologize, Princess," they were back to formality in public, but Catiua understood the reason. "but my orders require me elsewhere. I will call _someone _in to watch you in my stead."

Ozma turned and walked toward the door, the Bakram soldier quickly getting out of her way and holding the door open. Catiua's mouth dropped. Ozma's tone had implied she would call Oz! Catiua's mind was doing a little inner dance, but restrained herself from showing it due to the Bakram soldier watching her. The man closed the door behind Ozma, and Catiua found herself on edge. It wasn't the Bakram in particular, but the entire situation with the Resistance. The worry and tenseness that filled the castle spread to her, as well.

The room was silent except for Catiua's breathing. The Bakram was staring at her. It was not that he was doing anything wrong, for he was following orders, but Catiua was not in the mood to be stared at.

"P-Princess." The Bakram spoke rudely, without asking for her leave to do so. In most cases, Catiua wouldn't care if someone spoke so informally to her, but her mood was sour and even the promise of Oz's visit wasn't making it any better. "It's a pleasure to be in your presence, your Highness."

Catiua sighed. This man was ridiculous. He continued. "The Bakram have been waiting! With you, the war will be over." He was approaching Catiua now, getting within inches of her. Catiua was not comfortable with his distance, getting out of the chair and taking a few steps back, hand on the hilt of her sword. The man stopped temporarily, realizing he'd offended her, and instead went down to bowing low. His next words shocked Catiua.

"Don't worry, Princess, we won't have to bow to Lodis. Come with me, the Liberation Front may have been destroyed, but our goals live on. Valeria will be united!" The man ran forward and grasped at Catiua, shaking her. Catiua staggered back, surprised to see a small knife in the man's hand. "I don't want to hurt you, Princess, I just need you to sleep for a while."

Still walking backwards, Catiua drew her blade. Denam had allied with the Liberation Front? Impossible! Perhaps they were acting on their own? The Bakram laughed at her. "Come now Princess, swords aren't toys. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Come see how I use this 'toy' then. If you want me, you must come get me."

To Catiua's surprise the man took her dare and rushed towards her. He was sloppy and slow. Even Denam had more skill than him half a decade ago! Catiua was offended to have one of his skill mock her as if she was a child. She let him chase her for a time, circling the table and heading back towards the door, causing frustration to her opponent. Finally the man gave in and charged at her, Catiua dodged and brought her sword down, attempting to knock him out rather than permanently damage him. Unfortunately, for the Bakram rather than Catiua, he saw her movement at the last moment, and tried to dodge. But instead of the flat edge of her blade hitting, it caused him to eat the full force of the blow, letting Catiua cleanly remove his head entirely on accident.

At the force of the blow, Catiua's arm stung. She remained unmoving, breathing hard, not even noticing how the man's blood had sprayed across her dress and he was slumped dead on the ground in front of her. She was shaken; Catiua had never killed in such cruelty or cold blood before. It was for self-defense and she knew it couldn't be avoided, but it was still an odd feeling. She didn't like it; it felt so barbaric. She didn't know how long she stood there for before a familiar, pleasant voice sounded from the door.

"We leave you alone for a few minutes and you still somehow get into trouble. No wonder the High Commander demands you've a caretaker at all times."

Catiua didn't bother looking at Oz, instead, finally bring herself back to reality, she kneeled down and ran her sword across the Bakram Liberation Front member's clothing and sheathed her sword. From beside her, she saw Oz kick at the decapitated head. Catiua felt a bit ill when it came to rest by her kneeled form. She stood up and faced her new companion, staring rather flatly.

"Well, are you going to explain this?" Oz seemed bored, like he didn't really care. He was instead looking over her, pushing her against the wall and running a finger over the blood dripping down her face. His armor pressed into her, but he didn't seem to notice or care, his attention already elsewhere. Catiua sighed, not giving into his touch as he wished her to. Worry and stress overwhelmed her emotions from the recent events stopped her from caring about Oz's and her own desire at the moment.

"He was a member of the Liberation Front. He was trying to kidnap me or some nonsense. He said he wanted me to go with him to help rebuild Valeria."

Oz actually turned away from Catiua and kicked the body over. He had a frown on his face.

"I wouldn't know. Rabble all looks the same to me. The Bakram are as beetles; once they've invaded, it's simply impossible to remove them. A shame you didn't keep him alive."

Catiua was about to tell Oz that she certainly hadn't intended to kill him, but he took his dagger out and pushed it against her throat softly, drawing blood. Catiua knew better at this point than to try and struggle, for it would simply arouse him more. He leaned down and put his forehead onto her, whispering quietly.

"Sister told me I'm to apologize for my games. I'm not one to ignore my sister's advice, truly, but I'm not sorry." Oz slid the dagger up her face, a thin line of blood hitting the bottom of her right eyelid. It hurt, but Catiua did her best not to show it. Unfortunately, her body wasn't as willing to listen to reason as her mind and it shuddered involuntarily in pain. Oz spread the blood around her face with the flat of his blade, continuing to whisper. "Ozma ruined my night with her poisons." He murmured in utter distaste, but didn't stop stroking. Catiua brought her hands to the wound in her neck, healing the wounds gently. "Stop." Oz declared. Catiua sighed, relenting. Oz brought his dagger back down and reopened the freshly healed flesh, cutting deeper this time in punishment.

"I don't think you're doing your job, Oz." Catiua replied dryly.

"Of course I am. I am watching you, am I not?" Oz paused. "But as I was saying, you're indebted to me. I will not be tolerant of poison use again." Catiua offhandedly mumbled that it was Ozma who poisoned them both, which Oz ignored, instead completely changing the subject. "I've decided you belong to me now. You will scream only for me. You will beg only for me. No one is permitted to make you feel pain, pleasure, or to draw tears but me. Do you understand, Catiua?"

Catiua nodded. This must be the possessiveness Ozma had mentioned earlier.

"I asked you a question, _Princess_," his tone was cruel, and he brought his hand to her neck pushing her hard against the wall as his mouth met hers, drawing her breath in a kiss. "I expect an answer." Catiua tried to force his hand off of her neck, but it only made him grasp it harder. She was gagging and gasping and kicking her feet as he lifted her into the air. With what little self control she had left she nodded violently as gasped out

"Yes, Oz."

He dropped her back down with a smile on his face and encircled her with his arms. Catiua gasped for breath, temporarily ignoring the feeling of cool metal scraping into her. They were disrupted by a loud yell outside the room. The door didn't open and there were no knocks, but it caused them both to look towards it. The calls stopped after a moment and they turned their attention back to each other.

"Now, Catiua. I am going to show you everything I intended to do last night, and more."

"Oz" Catiua murmured as Oz's hands worked at the buttons behind her dress. "We can get caught. These are not our rooms."

"All the better. Let them disrupt us; we'll have a new toy to play with."

Catiua frowned. She was surprised at how much the thought angered her. More than that, her entire body screamed in jealousy. Remembering Ozma's lesson about speaking up in confidence, Catiua decided to tell Oz exactly what she felt about that.

"Oz." Catiua's tone demanded his attention, and she was pleased when she had it. "When it's just us, I do not want you to ever speak of any other 'toys.'" Catiua paused, knowing her next comment was inviting disaster. "I'd rather you do all of it on me, than to touch another in my presence."

To her surprise, this only caused Oz to grasp harder, his gloved hand stopped unbuttoning her dress, dragging the metal of his glove along her cheek. "I promise, Catiua. Unless, of course, you would like to join me in playing with the pet as well?" Catiua frowned in disgust, letting Oz know exactly what she thought of that, but Oz laughed. "Pretend all you like, but I saw your eyes. You loved having me at your mercy. It will be that much better when you crush someone with me at your side."

Though his words were horrifying, it spiked warmth through her body. His tone was husky and Catiua found it difficult to say no. Despite her relative lack of desire only a few minutes earlier, just Oz's presence was enough to bring it out. There was, of course, one problem.

"Oz, you've armor on."

"And? 'Tis a simple thing to remove. You will help me, once your dress is off, of course."

Oz finished releasing the buttons on her dress, letting it fall halfway down her chest exposing her undergarments. The blood dripping from her neck had stained the top red and was causing it to stick to her skin. The feeling was annoying and Catiua pulled it away in annoyance.

Oz had stopped removing her clothes and was offhandedly running his gloved hands through her hair. "Your hair looks nice like this. I'm glad you've decided to keep it this way." He murmured more to himself than to Catiua. "Sister has told me that I'm to be good to you. Am I bad to you, Catiua?"

"I wouldn't consider ripping my flesh apart, stabbing me, and making me scream to be 'good,' Oz."

"But you enjoyed some of it."

"That's not the point. Cutting me with your blade the moment you see me is not a proper way to say 'Good day.'"

"Get used to it. I'd say 'stop complaining,' but the memory of your scream as I melted the flesh off your hands has been a subject of my dreams for the last nights. Your complaints only bring upon memories of your cries, so please, complain all you like."

"You're not doing well on the 'being good' part, Oz."

"'Tis overrated, anyway. You'll just have to live with me as who I am."

"As I told Ozma, and as I will tell you, I love you, no matter what you've done. Perhaps it is blind, and perhaps it is foolish, but I'm not a rational woman. I act on my emotions, and my emotions are keeping me here, even as my cheek burns, blood covers my face and clothing, and your armor is giving me bruises from the pressure." Oz chuckled at the last part, grasping her even harder, causing Catiua to grit her teeth in pain.

"I am not used to having such words spoken to me." Oz hesitated. His tone was almost soft and delicate. Catiua might even call it fragile, but he covered it immediately and Catiua was not sure it had even been there at all. "I find myself wanting to hear it more often." He drew his mouth across her neck where the blood had started clotting. "Enough of this, 'tis too sappy. We're going to have to play lightly; I can't have you screaming too loudly and alerting the guards. Perhaps we'll play a struggling game instead? I'd gag you, but I love how your lips quiver when you're trying to hold back your screams."

Catiua wasn't sure if she should feel complimented to have Oz's complete or attention or if she wanted to throttle him for giving it to her at such an inappropriate time.

"Can't we do neither?"

"No."

Oz had worked Catiua's undergarments down and it was hanging down over her stomach like her dress. Sighing in resignation, Catiua murmured. "Why don't we play more gently for now, in warm up for later?"

"I do not like being teased, Catiua."

Oz's tone was getting annoyed and impatient. Catiua realized her mistake; she had been demanding before, letting him know what she wanted. He had given in then, but now she was once again asking Oz for approval for her actions. He was not being agreeable simply because she was allowing him to step over her. Now understanding what needed to be done, Catiua grasped his hand and brought his dagger to her lower neck, and pointed down to where her dress and undergarments hung down.

"You may play in this area. No removing any of my body parts, Oz, I need to be able to heal myself."

Oz immediately flicked his dagger up, eager to begin, but just as he began drawing it down her skin, the door slammed open and the sound of footsteps entering disrupted their game. Catiua heard Oz make a low snarl and instinctively covered her chest as Oz turned away, his body in front of hers defensively. Despite their previous actions, it was his job to protect her, and he was willing to do so with his life, not that Catiua intended to allow him to be so foolish. Oz's body language became fiercer as he and Catiua saw exactly what, or rather who, the disruptor was.

"W-What is this? Catiua?"

Catiua turned her face away, healing the wounds on her face and neck, arousal immediately burned away. She couldn't do anything about the smeared blood, but her own lust was gone at both the interruption and at her anger and humiliation at the new presence in the room.

"Brother. What a wonderful time to drop by!"

"Catiua! What are you doing here? What's going on?"

Oz interrupted before Catiua could reply. "We're simply giving the Princess what you cannot." Oz paused, tilting his said to the side. "Or perhaps it is simply 'I'?"

Catiua let out of a soft groan. "Not now, Oz."

Catiua's healing had finished enough so that her wounds would stop bleeding and not open at any harsh movement. She gently wiped her blood soaked hands on the bottom of her already filthy dress, frowning when the sticky substance wouldn't remove. As Catiua pulled up her undergarments ready to reply to Denam, who was staring like a fool sword in hand, she froze when another familiar face rushed into the room.

"Denam, we're awaiting your ord-" Vyce's firm voice trailed off as he looked about the room, eyes landing on Catiua. In spite of the ridiculousness of the situation, Vyce's eyes were running up and down Catiua's bare shoulders and breasts. In anger, Catiua forced up her undergarments, sliding them over her shoulders; she could tell Oz has seen Vyce's prolonged gaze as well. She pulled her dress up afterwards; t was loose and unbuttoned, but at least she was no longer exposed. Vyce's gaze was slipping between Catiua and Oz now and she could see his expression darkening. Denam felt it too, Catiua could tell, and he turned to Vyce, putting a hand on his arm.

"Vyce, we need to clear the castle, I'll deal with this-"

Vyce pushed Denam's hand off, taking a step forward without a word. Oz took a step back, moving to the side of Catiua, his arm snaked around her waist. Catiua leaned into it. It was a bad idea, Catiua knew, giving into Oz's little show of power over the younger men, but Catiua found the look on both of their faces to be absolutely amazing. If possible, Denam looked even more dumbstruck than before and Vyce's face was so red he looked ready to explode. Catiua felt Oz silently chuckle as his hand caressed her hip before going to her back to button a few of the lower buttons before Vyce finally regained his composure enough to demand answers.

"I. . .Catiua. . .You? With _him_?" His tone was horrified and outraged at the very thought of Oz with Catiua. Catiua found it incredibly satisfying to have him stumbling on words before her.

Catiua replied immediately, with Oz speaking over her at the same time.

"Yes."

_"All last night." _Oz's tone was practically a purr. Catiua shivered in pleasure.

Vyce looked ready to attack and Oz quickly turned to Catiua, whispering in her ear and playing with her hair. "My love, may I borrow your sword?"

"You've an axe." Catiua kept her eyes on the younger men, since Oz seemed too distracted with her to do so.

"Yes, but it will be much more satisfying to beat this child with the weapon of the woman he lusts for." Oz grasped at her sword and she didn't stop him, He released her gently and balanced it between his hands getting used to its lighter weight.

"We'll have to enchant you a better blade, love, this is a child's weapon. I suppose it will have to do for now."

Vyce's face contorted with a variety of emotions. His anger was dominant, but Catiua could see confusion and denial as well. "No. No, I won't believe it!" Vyce snarled drawing daggers.

"Vyce, enough!" Denam scolded firmly. Vyce wasn't listening to reason and completely ignored Denam. Denam drew his own blade, but remained at a distance, cautious enough to know that he was in a bad situation.

"I can't believe you Catiua." Vyce breathed as he approached. Catiua was annoyed. Unarmed, she gently kneeled next to the fallen Liberation Front member and picked up his dagger from a stiff hand. Kicking his body out of the way, she pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. If the men were going to be ridiculous, she might as well enjoy the show.

"Why is it so difficult to believe, Vyce, that I might not be attracted to you? A dog who begs at my feet, unable to think on his own, is not someone I want to spend my life with."

"Come now Catiua, there's no need to be shy. I know you enjoy the begging." was Oz's playful remark. "This seems to be a trait common to most women."

Vyce interrupted, his eyes dark with sadness. Catiua hadn't seen him this broken since Golyat had been massacred. "Catiua, I had hoped. . .I don't understand why. . ." Vyce seemed unsure of what to say and suddenly looked very lost. Oz was approaching him quickly now, taking advantage of Vyce's indecisive sorrow. Regaining himself in time, Vyce was able to block Oz's blow and fell into a defensive position. He grit his teeth and bit out. "But I do understand one thing: I must kill this man!"

Vyce disregarded Denam's cries to stop and rushed at Oz. Oz met him happily, his laughter echoing through the empty room. Catiua barely paid attention, doing her best to purposely avoid Denam's eyes. She focused her gaze onto the sound of Vyce and Oz, Vyce's angry gasps and Oz's own enthusiastic laughter. Catiua eyed the dagger in her hand, attempting to distract herself from the current disaster. It was a boring thing, its blade dulled from long-term use. The leather of the hilt was worn and Catiua could tell the Bakram had been fond of his weapon.

After a few moments, Oz seemed to get bored, and called back to Catiua:

"In Lodis it is traditional to give presents to those you love. Are there similar traditions here?"

Catiua replied cautiously, looking up from the dagger. Vyce hadn't stopped his ridiculous assault, and his anger was wearing him more quickly than he should be. Catiua could see the lag and slight delay in his actions. "Yes, usually on holidays or during special events."

Oz took a few quick steps back, causing Vyce to slash only at air. He looked over the brunette and Vyce took a few deep breaths trying to recompose himself. Denam hadn't bothered stepping in trying to stop Vyce and Catiua didn't blame him; when Vyce was like this he simply refused to listen to reason. Oz replied, intentionally blunt and loud. "Excellent, then perhaps I will preserve and remove his penis so you will have a toy to play with when I'm not here to please you myself."

"I'm not interested in any man's penis other than yours, Oz." was Catiua's blunt reply. The look of shock and horror on Denam's face was worth her own temporary humiliation, even if he didn't rise to bait as Vyce did. She knew it was a bad idea to again feed Oz's ego so, and if Ozma were here she would disapprove immensely, but Catiua found it difficult to resist the urge to tease the younger men. The comment did serve to enrage Vyce, if possible, even more and he continued his assault, openings everywhere. Catiua almost wanted to beat him herself to show him not to let his emotions run away with him while in battle.

"True, true." Oz paused and grunted at the force of which Vyce slashed at him. "What about a brush? I'll cut off his hands and meld the bones together so he can run his fingers through your hair, even in death."

Catiua sighed. She wasn't quite sure if Oz was being serious or not, what worried her was that he probably was, but knew it was best not to provoke him any more. "If that's what you want to do Oz. But aren't presents supposed to be a surprise?"

Before Oz could reply, Vyce snapped, giving her a pointed look. "Catiua, how could you? With this. . .Ogre?"

"Quite easily, I assure you. Her screams and moans echoed through the hallways loudly enough that even the servants upstairs could hear." Catiua sighed in response, Oz was paying more attention to Vyce's reactions than he was the battle.

"Oz is it really necessary to elaborate on our private lives?"

"Why not? He's obviously quite interested."

"You're getting distracted. Enough games, shouldn't we go find Tartaros?"

Oz made a dejected little sigh. Catiua felt a bit bad for ruining his fun, but he was being irresponsible. With the Resistance in the castle they were in danger. "Very well."

Vyce hesitated for a moment, belatedly realizing that Oz had been toying with him, only to find himself knocked to the ground in his hesitation. He attempted to roll out of the way and onto his feet, but Oz kicked him in the chest, causing him to instinctively curl up. Oz kicked him again in the stomach, forcing him onto his back, but Vyce was stronger than Oz predicted and, despite his shock, once again attempted to roll to safety. In frustration, Oz slammed Catiua's sword straight into Vyce's knee, causing Vyce to release a loud, high pitched scream that made Catiua shiver in horror. Oz twisted the blade, making sure his kneecap was ruined before pulling it out. Bringing his sword back up Oz aimed it at Vyce's chest. Vyce was attempting to crawl away using his arms and by turning over on his good knee and crawling, but the pain was causing him to move slowly. Oz waited until Vyce was almost out of range, attempting to remove his feet, but Denam jumped in, meeting Oz's sword with his own.

"I don't know what you've done to Catiua, but this castle is ours. Leave now, and I'll spare your life."

Before Oz could snap the reply she know he was going to say, Catiua spoke, getting out of the chair and walking over to Oz.

"He's right, Oz. We need to leave. Now." Catiua did her best to imitate the tone Ozma used when ordering him about and Oz sighed again. He took a step back and lowered his sword, handing it back to Catiua and instead grasping the hilt of his axe. The sound of footsteps coming from outside the room worried Catiua and she could they made Oz nervous as well.

Oz walked before her, holding the door open. Catiua stopped by the gasping form of Vyce, who was trying to hold tears in his eyes. She took a step over him, pretending he wasn't there at all, purposely walking over his cloak. She rubbed her boots on it roughly and as she walked to the door she made sure to put her full weight onto Vyce's hand, hearing a pleasant cracking sound and Vyce's low moan in pain. Oz smiled at her.

"Catiua. . ." was all Denam said as she walked by. Catiua didn't even turn in his direction, keeping her head high as she left the room, fleeing the castle.

Almost as an afterthought, Catiua teasingly murmured to the rushing Oz, an old memory of one of their meetings coming to mind:

"So, what was that about Ravness being Denam's lover?"

Oz had relatively little difficulty finding Lanselot Tartaros. They had a designated meeting place; apparently, Catiua and Oz were last to come. Balxephon and Ozma had temporarily retreated to Heim, but Catiua was to be taken to another castle, a dilapidated locale known as Barnicia. Tartaros eyed Catiua's wounds and asked her if she was well; Catiua barely paid heed to him, saying only that she had healed them. Her mind was elsewhere.

Catiua kept her expression flat. She could barely believe her own actions. For all she spoke of Denam abandoning her, she had been cruel, spiteful, and abandoned him when given the chance, even laughing at his own sadness. She was conflicted and upset, but reminded herself that Denam was likely to use her just as Lodis did; at least with Lodis, Catiua had Oz.

Oz kept his distance, staying near Tartaros. They were speaking in a low tone and Catiua couldn't make out their words, but Oz was wincing and, if she read his body language correctly, looked like a kicked dog. Catiua hoped Tartaros hadn't figured out the relationship between the two, for then not only would Oz be punished, but Ozma as well.

Catiua was ignored for much of the journey, until the Templars finally stopped. Catiua rubbed her feet in pain from the long walk. She tried to catch Oz's eye, but he refused to look at her, let alone acknowledge her presence; Catiua hoped he wasn't in too much trouble. It was Tartaros who approached her first, a severe expression on his features. His words were not what she expected.

"Catiua, it is time. I've sent Ozma and Balxephon with the official announcement; we are going to put you on the throne."

Catiua froze. She barely registered the words, instead her mind echoed with memories of Ozma's advice. She could not let Tartaros push her around; Catiua must make a stand for her people. She would become queen with the backing of Lodis, yes, but she would not do it without speaking to Tartaros on her own terms as well. Filled with newfound confidence, Catiua boldly looked up despite her sadness and spoke.

"I accept the position with honor, however, I would like to discuss the future of my people. . ."


	12. Change: VyceCatiua and DenamOzma

Warning: Crack ahead. Though there are serious undertones to this fiction, as well as angst and some minor themes of depression and mental illness, the story is complete crack and is not meant to be taken seriously.

The premise was based off of two statements made in jest:

1. A joke about hanging Vyce from Heim's walls while Catiua and Denam, dressed in corsets (yes, yes, _this _again), beat him into submission.

2. Martym's in-battle Skill quote, which says he was killing people when the party was still babies. If he was killing people at ~13, is it not possible he was having sex at ~12 as well?

This story takes place about a year post-coronation. The coronation seems to take place a few months post-game, according to CODA's dialogue. Its main pairings are VyceCatiua and DenamOzma; it obviously takes place on the Law path.

DenamOzma, you wonder? As early as Chapter 1, Lanselot Tartaros compares Denam to Hobyrim. It's not the crackiest pairing out there and I hope you will love it just as much as I do. Don't worry, I'm not neglecting Hobyrim's existence simply for the sake of a favored pairing, he's part of the story. There ended up being a bit more DenamOzma than I originally intended, unfortunately.

_**Change**_

* * *

><p>"Your mind is drifting."<p>

Denam opened his eyes at the gentle, worried words. His sighed softly as the warm form of his new wife moved over in the bath and sat in front of him, a motion that caused the bubbly water to slosh about. Her gaze was firm, but also delicate and loving; Ozma made it clear that she would not allow Denam avoid the question as he usually did. She would do whatever it took to get a proper answer from him. He could pretend all he liked around others, but around her, Denam was a book not only opened, but with its binding shredded so that its pages could be picked up at will.

It was true; he had been distracted since returning to Valeria, mind focused on what he would say and do. Though his current conflict was rooted in Valeria, his very recent previous strife arose from his wedding trip and post-wedding "adventure" in Lodis. Instead of going away, as many new lovers do, Denam had spent most of his considerable savings in choosing to build a new manor with Ozma, who refused to remain with her family after a disastrous wedding party. Insults had been tossed about in regards to Ozma's rumored "betrayal" and Denam had been worried that his wife would start killing some of her more ferocious cousins who spoke badly of her and even worse of her brother. In an odd turn of the Wheel, Ozma's family had not only been friendly, but approved of Denam, saying he was not only skillful, but devoted and respectful. Being the "brother" of a Queen, no matter how small and insignificant the islands, also helped his cause. The building project was being overseen by men Denam had personally chosen; Ozma had been oddly submissive on the subject; when confronted, she said that Denam was a better judge of men than she. By the time they returned, their new home would be completed. It was a rather large place, far larger than anything Denam would have ever expected to live in, near the woods. Ozma had particularly decided on having an elaborate garden built in response to how "dull" Denam's design had been.

After Ozma introduced him to her family and their wedding had been completed, Denam spent the rest his time in Lodis in worry about what Catiua would say upon his return to Valeria. His sister had not known of Denam's intentions to go to Lodis instead of Xenobia upon his departure and, given that he had rejected Olivya as they had been in Heim's port awaiting their ship, Denam feared that Catiua may have received misinformation about him. Ozma had been no help in the matter; she had offhandedly remarked that women were vengeful creatures and if Olivya was anything like her, she would work to make Denam's life miserable upon his return. Denam had panicked and almost turned back from the port at Ozma's tease, only his deepest willpower kept him beside her. Olivya would likely tell Catiua about how cruelly he had treated her and about how he had lied about going to Xenobia, instead he traveled to Lodis.

In truth, Denam _had_ planned to visit Xenobia. He still wished to, however his and Ozma's relationship remained a secret when Ozma alerted him that she wished to return home. Denam could not endorse Ozma's choice to leave alone, so he had told her - only to receive a self-satisfied smile in return - that he would follow her if she chose to go to Lodis. One night during a storm, when the ship rocked violently and Ozma was ill from the anger of the sea, Denam had held his love, stroking her hair, and declared that he wished to stay by her side forever. Ozma had not replied at first and he had continued, very nervous, by saying that, even though he knew she did not need it, he would protect her heart from any more suffering. Much to Denam's surprise, Ozma had clutched at him and buried her face in his clothes. It had taken a moment to understand her reaction, but Denam knew now that she had been hiding her tears. Ozma's worst-kept secret was that she was a terrible romantic; she was remarkably possessive and exceedingly clingy.

After their "adventure," if it could be called such, Denam had begun to worry about Catiua and Vyce. How would they react to the news of his marriage and that his visit to Lodis was not simply a social affair? What could he tell them? He had chosen a woman whose heart had been broken not once, not twice, but three separate times. To complicate matters, his wife had been remarkably hostile to all of them after joining the Resistance; she had spoke only when spoken to and replied with harsh, sarcastic words. Once Denam had calmed her, he had found Ozma to be pleasant and talkative; she enjoyed the smaller things in life and would often stare into the sky or at nature. After Hobyrim's death, Denam had been her only companion and pillar, for none other than him had spent the time getting to know her. Catiua had been jealous of the time he spent with Ozma and Vyce had been cautious, constantly pointing out that she was Lodissian; Lodissians were not to be trusted, especially one who had a hand in Golyat's destruction. Denam had never been happier to prove Vyce completely wrong as he had with Ozma.

Upon arriving in Valeria, seeing Catiua again had been an event in itself. To his surprise, Catiua had laughed at how much Denam had changed, though Denam did not feel he was any different at all; if anything, his sister had matured beautifully and was doing well as Queen. Despite his pressure on Vyce before leaving with Ozma, Vyce had refused to court Catiua, even with the entire country aware of his interest. Denam had laughed when he read an article from Coritanae that Catiua had handed him with rumors about the new queen and a "mysterious, brunette Walister boy" that she was apparently having an "affair" with. Denam wondered what rumors had spread about him during and after the war; he had never paid much heed to the vellum passed around with "news" written on them, for all they spread was gossip.

Catiua's reaction to Denam's marriage had been mixed and he could not fathom the reason for her cool reception. The Queen had been silent for a time before she looked back and forth between the two, Ozma had slid her arm around Denam's waist possessively, and finally a bright smile appeared on her features saying she was happy for them, before she motioned in dismissal and ordered rooms prepared. Denam had been entirely confused by Catiua's actions until Ozma had finally told him that she was most likely angry that Denam had no consulted her on the matter of marriage. The blatant rejection had hurt, for Denam had been happy to finally share his secret with his sister, only to have it thrown back into his face.

"Denam." Ozma's tone was rigid and snapped him out of his worries and memories. Ozma looked into his eyes, body pressed against his gently. Her skin was soft from their prolonged exposure to the bathwater. Though he attempted to do otherwise, he found himself remarkably distracted simply by Ozma's touch.

"Forgive me, love. You know I worry too much."

"You don't have to tell him." Her words were delicate now that she Denam's attention. She continued the soft touches in attempt to distract Denam from his worries and perhaps even have her way with him.

"I must." Denam's will cracked at Ozma's touch, but he would not allow her victory in their battle of duty.

"Then why hesitate? You've a way with people; Vyce will listen, even if he does not wish to."

Denam relented with a nod; his arms surrounded Ozma's waist and pulled her close as he finally gave into her game of "touch." The smell of their soap enveloped him and he kissed her neck, her hair fell around him and he pushed it back behind her ear as he did such. Just her feel gave him confidence. Despite their difference in age, Ozma was calm and patient, willing to experiment and allow Denam to experiment as well. Denam had, unfortunately, once been the victim of Ozma's wrath when he had spent more time looking over her body than he had pleasing her when she desired it most. Denam learned very quickly that while she was submissive in many matters, Ozma was clearly the master of their bedroom.

Denam held Ozma for a few moments before finally releasing her, regretfully running his hands over her smooth skin as he did so. Ozma understood the vague cue and stood, her own fingers ran down his face and arms. Ozma exited the bath and covered herself with a towel and Denam quietly followed, chilled at the late-night air. Small bumps covered his skin as he walked through the room only in his towel. While Ozma put on her nightclothes, Denam went over to his trunk, the lid already opened, and picked out a clean pair of trousers, undergarments, and a top. He did not necessarily care which he chose and pulled them at random; very few other than Vyce would see him on this night and it would be dark at their meeting place. As Denam dressed himself, his own wetness made his trousers and undergarments difficult to slide on, he oddly noticed his clothes matched surprisingly well - but clashed in style. The pale shirt was a bit small and very worn, for it was one of Denam's older tops, and his pants were almost too long. It was a bad habit of Denam's: to reduce cost, Denam would buy clothes that were effective but also cheap, not necessarily ones that fit him perfectly. Denam buckled his sword belt on, firmly tightening it around his waist; his small shirt wrinkled upwards uncomfortably and he attempted to fix it. Before long, Denam accepted that his appearance was a lost cause. As Ozma noticed the sword, she gave Denam a look of disapproval. Denam ignored her inspection; he knew Vyce as well enough that he could predict his sword's necessity in their meeting. Finally dressed, Denam walked over to the small table in the guest chambers, where he had left a small package he had brought with him from Lodis. After doing so, Denam kissed Ozma who had made her way behind him. The kiss was lingered pleasantly and Ozma's touch promised an eventful night upon his return. His arms still around her waist, Denam whispered a promise that he would return soon, but first he allowed himself to bask in Ozma's presence, the bath gave her skin a warm glow. After a moment he regretfully released her and walked by. Near the door, he slid his boots on. They were dirty and old, but Denam found himself hesitant to replace them, for they had helped him throughout his early battles and over many harsh trails. After a quick bow to Ozma, Denam slipped out of their room and into the empty hallway into Heim's guest wing.

The halls were silent and dark, the sound of Denam's boots and the soft crackle of torches along the walls were his only companions. Despite his extended absence, Denam was familiar with many of the men who patrolled Heim's castle. Denam could not claim to know all of his former troops, but he had tried to learn the names of those who showed loyal or exemplary actions in battle. He knew enough of them that he had become well respected by his troops, who considered him their equal and friend. Many of these men served Catiua, but if Denam were to give them orders, they would follow his lead in an instant, even though he now lacked the formal title of "Commander." It was one of Denam's biggest regrets: Catiua was not an effective military leader and possibly never would be. Her popularity with the nobles spiked and fell; many stated her claim to the throne weakened by her blood. Denam worried that soon one might be bold enough to attempt to take the throne from her. Denam's own presence caused mixed reactions; many were spiteful to towards him, especially when word leaked that he was Brantyn Morne's nephew. That spite only grew when rumors of his marriage to a former Loslorien Knight Commander spread; the latter rumors spoke that Denam was using his influence to once again give Lodis a foothold in the country.

Denam had arranged to meet with Vyce almost as soon as he had arrived. He wanted it as private as possible, so he requested the other man arrive in the gardens deep into the night. Vyce had been cautious; he might have been respectful and possibly even forgave Denam after the war ended, but the trust between the two had been broken; even lightly forged anew it could shatter at the slightest touch. Denam ran a hand through his wet hair in worry; was it worth the sacrifice of his relationship with Vyce simply to let the other man know the truth? Denam pushed the large doors open into the gardens slowly as he mused on the subject. It was too late for regrets, Vyce was already waiting; Denam saw him in the distance as soon as he closed the door behind him and walked into the dark gazebo. Denam noted the other man was armed as well, though it was unsurprising, for he had never seen Vyce leave his room without a weapon since Balmamusa. The gardens at night were very different than their daytime counterparts. Denam worried that foes would be able to strike at him in the shadowy darkness, but quickly realized his own foolishness; they were no longer at war and assassins would not attempt to kill him as he slept - or so he hoped.

Denam walked to Vyce, who lacked the armor Denam had become accustomed to, instead he wore a well-tailored blue top and black pants. Denam felt a bit foolish at his own old, mismatched garb in comparison. After a moment of hesitation, Denam held his hand out to his friend and Vyce cautiously took it and offered a firm shake in return. Vyce didn't smile, but it was likely because Denam's own serious expression. Denam fidgeted with the package in his arm, drawing Vyce's attention to it, but didn't say anything; he had no idea where to begin. Vyce cleared his throat after an uncomfortable, lengthy silence between the two.

"I'm told you're married now." Vyce's tone held a surprising amount of spite, though he hid it well. Denam could only detect it because he had spent so many years with his companion.

"Is there a problem?" Denam attempted to keep his own tone light and unobtrusive. He succeeded at that, but his body language was stiff and sent mixed messages to his companion. He squinted in the darkness toward his friend in attempt to make out his facial features, only the soft light from the ramparts gave him any vantage.

"The rumors are unpleasant, Denam; I assume you've heard them just as I have." Denam nodded and the silence fell between them once again, the only sound was the soft cry of insects and their heavy breathing. Denam could tell Vyce was getting anxious, but Denam's own apprehension almost overwhelmed him and prevented any more words. His normally solid confidence was shaken, but he knew that, despite his own feelings, he must reveal the truth, even if Vyce hated him for it. Vyce spoke just as Denam prepared his own words.

"Is there are reason you've called me here tonight?" Denam nodded in return. He felt a bit odd, with his frequent nods and relatively few words, but the motions bought him the time he desperately needed.

"I've recently obtained some information that is of value to you." Vyce eyed Denam curiously, but retained his caution. Vyce shrugged, as if unsure what to say, and motioned for Denam to continue. "When I was in Lodis, Ozma-"

"So 'tis true. You are married to the Lodissian witch. She was one of the butchers at Golyat! Have you no pride, Denam?" Vyce's violent reaction was not entirely unexpected, but Denam found himself subtly annoyed at the other male's assumptions and insults to his wife. The remark was made even worse by Denam's own nervousness; he silently struggled to keep calm and rational in refusal to show Vyce how the words harmed him.

"I am no different from her, Vyce; as you forgive me, I ask you forgive my wife." Denam knew Vyce's answer before the words left his lips, but he had to try.

"Impossible." Vyce's tone was hard, cold, his jaw set in anger. His body was no longer relaxed, but he walked over to the side of the gazebo and leaned on the large stone pillar, face turned away from Denam. "Just speak your piece so I may retire for the night."

Denam breathed deeply in order to regain control. Unlike Vyce, Denam did not move from his position and remained standing upright. "My wife, and her family, have extensive information networks crossing various cities and countries. Ozma apparently found you quite interesting." Vyce snorted in anger. "'Familiar' was the term she used."

"Get on with it, Denam!"

Denam continued without hindrance in attempt to ignore Vyce's curt outburst. "She obtained some rather interesting information regarding you. I could not believe it." Denam slowly approached Vyce, his boots barely released any sound, even in the empty night, and held out his package. Vyce stared at it for a moment and, without moving, cautiously took it. He examined the wrapping with a finger before he handed it back turned his attention to Denam.

"What do the Lodissians care about me?"

"Yes, that is the dilemma, is it not?" Denam again lapsed into silence and took a step back in attempt to give them both space; even Vyce could feel the thickness and tension in the air between them. For what felt like the hundredth time during the evening, Denam felt a flash of hesitation. He feared not only for his friend, but himself. His rationality demanded he speak the truth, even if it was painful for both sides, he knew he could not stop now. "Do you remember Martym? The crass Knight Commander in the Hanging Gardens?"

"Of course, do you take me for a fool? His and Barbas' deaths were the ones we'd waited for since Golyat's massacre. I'd never felt such satisfaction as when I ran my sword through his neck."

Denam turned his eyes away, still unsure how to breach the subject. "I've learned some unfortunate news regarding him." To Denam's surprise, Vyce laughed, apparently amused about anything "unfortunate" that happened to the man. "It's a bit disturbing, I admit. Molested as a child, daily, by his elder sister." Denam frowned, the mere thought of it made him ill. "It apparently occurred well into his teen years, until the sister made a grave error; she continued playing with him even after her arranged marriage."

"Is there a point to this tragic tale? I find myself desperately lacking pity. No matter his past, it's no excuse for his actions."

"Patience, Vyce! There is point to it." Vyce turned away, annoyed, as if he had no interest in listening. "The marriage comes later, my story takes place when Martym was young. 12, or so I'm told." Though some married that young, such molestation by one's own family members was never acceptable, no matter the country and culture. Even Vyce couldn't keep a straight face at the thought of a 12 year-old being taken and raped by an elder sister, no matter how much he loathed the man. Vyce's expression was less a look of empathy and more one of terror at the action itself. "Martym ended up impregnating his sister."

"Where are you going with this Denam? Why should I care?"

"Enough, Vyce!" Denam's outburst was small, but as both men acknowledged from his normally impassive manner that it was a sign that he was upset. Denam felt shamed at showing the emotion immediately after, knowing his stress was getting the best of him. "A child born of incest in a noble house is disgrace, or so Ozma says, but usually tolerated. They immediately married the elder woman off before word of her, ah, forays spread. The child, however, remained with her. She was kind at first, but soon lost patience," Denam paused. "This seems to be rather common knowledge for the Lodissians, but she would beat the child until he screamed, even in public - and especially at parties - trying to humiliate him. The child didn't know any better, he could not even walk yet!"

Vyce had quieted now and for that Denam was thankful. "Apparently, the woman was so out of control that her parents had to remove the child from her care. They wanted nothing to do with the boy, so they sent him off on a boat with black market 'goods.' " Denam didn't want to continue. "Or rather, young boys. The only object on him other than his filth-filled clothing was a small nametag; it read 'Vyce.' The ship's final destination was Golyat."

"Liar." Vyce snapped. "This is a sick joke, Denam."

"That is what I said. I thought it was some ridiculous mistake. But" Denam held out the wrapped box he had under his arm. "I was given this - judge for yourself."

Vyce looked ready to stalk away, but Denam closed the distance between the two before the other man could do anything rash. He forced the little package back into Vyce's hands. Surprisingly, Vyce didn't throw it onto the ground, instead he stared at it with some cautious curiosity and opened the wrapping. Inside was a small metal chain, identical to the one he wore when younger. It was too small for him now, but he wore his nametag on his wrist, a reminder of what he had thought to be a present from his father in Golyat.

As Vyce toyed with the item, Denam continued. "Ozma says she saw the beating, once. The child screamed." Vyce's eyes were downcast. "If you'd like, you can speak with Ozma about it; we spoke with Lady Noumous and. . ."

"No! I'll not accept help from that murderous wench." Vyce dropped the remained of the wrapping onto the ground and grasped at the identical nametag. He slid onto his knees, murmuring more to himself, his eyes glazed as if Denam were not there. "I-I always thought it was father." Vyce was shaking now; Denam wanted to help his friend, but was not sure how to calm or soothe him. Comfort was not his area of expertise, so Denam acted as he always did: he sat by his friend and offered him a tolerant ear. Denam's hand remained on the hilt of his sword, knowing that Vyce's emotions could be reactive.

"They're not memories, not truly." Denam had not said anything and he didn't understand Vyce's words entirely. "They're more feelings, emotions. Terror, pain." Vyce leaned his head down into his hands, his tone harsh, trying to hold back his sadness and rage. "Laughter, anger - both at me." Vyce turned to his friend, a dead, traumatized look upon his features. Almost as quickly as he could move, Vyce had drawn his blade and Denam rolled of the way onto his knees, one hand on the ground the other on the hilt of his blade.

"Why do you do this, Denam? Do you delight in seeing me suffer? Has your wife and her sadistic desires twisted their tentacles into your heart so that you seek to give me pain?"

Denam quickly drew his blade, glad he had the foresight to ignore Ozma's glare telling him to leave it. "Calm, Vyce! I've no interest in causing you pain, but when we learned of this, Ozma and I both knew we had to alert you."

"Did you ever think, Denam, that sometimes the truth is better unspoken?" Vyce angrily approached Denam with his sword, slashing erratically. The attacks were not necessarily aimed at Denam, but Vyce seemed to want to hit whatever was in his range. Denam took a few steps back, escaping into the darkness out of Vyce's reach. Vyce pursued Denam quickly, and instinctively Denam blocked the attack. "Your duty blinds you yet again." Vyce breathed heavily from his emotional explosion. "Always seeking to do what is necessary, you forget emotions! You turn a blind eye to suffering when it suits you; given your new acquaintances, I might even say you've a taste for the screams of your country folk."

"Don't be ridiculous, Vyce." Denam knew better than to say more than necessary when his old friend was in these moods, instead choosing only to deflect his words, rather than dig his hole deeper. Denam moved back into the light at the center of the garden to more safely parry Vyce's blows. He kept his face impassive; Vyce would not want pity and Denam's anger would only enrage Vyce more. Their blades danced for a few moments before Vyce continued his taunts.

"Yes, I see it now. Olivya came back crying! The entire castle knew of her rejection; she was willing to give everything for you, her life, her duty, her very meaning of existence, and you turned her away because you lusted for another."

"No! I wouldn't hurt her!" Denam finally hissed out, unable to passively withstand the taunt. "But I do not love her, either. For her own sake, I had to turn her back; it is as you say, she was willing to give up everything she loved, and I could not allow that. It would have torn her apart."

"Just as you wouldn't hurt me, right, Denam?" Vyce stopped, looking ill. "A convenient time for you to be selfish, to be sure, though I must admit your altruistic facade needed to fall at some point. Once again, your true nature comes out, just like Balmamusa! Just like your lover's actions at Boed!"

"Insult me all you like, Vyce, but do not spread your anger to Ozma." Denam warned, finally going on the offensive, letting Vyce know he would not tolerate such slander. Vyce staggered back at the controlled skill of Denam's blows; Vyce's erratic emotions made him vulnerable and Denam was easily able to gain the upper hand. Had Vyce been of calmer mind the advantage would not have been won so easily.

"And why not? Is she not just as guilty as you? The perfect Cleric girl wasn't enough for Commander Denam. No, that's not right. You were threatened! Yes, you're threatened by me approaching Catiua and you felt the need to once again one-up me!" Denam gasped, having no idea where Vyce could draw such a conclusion from. Denam had grown out of such competitions years ago. Denam was also confused, from what he had gathered, Catiua and Vyce had not been pursuing a relationship; it seemed perhaps Catiua was hiding something from him. Vyce's words interrupted Denam's thoughts. "No, you needed the exotic, foreign, noblewoman. After all, I couldn't match you there."

"That's more than enough, Vyce." Denam, finally having reached his limit of immature assumptions for the evening, easily disarmed his friend, sending his blade flying across the garden. Denam caught his breath, but knew his face likely showed his anger. "Go rest Vyce, we will speak more when the sun rises."

"You might, but I certainly will not!" Ignoring his sword completely, Vyce fled into the shadows of the garden and out of sight. Denam did not lower his weapon, instead going to pick up Vyce's blade; he would give it to the guard later. Denam's return through the halls was completely uneventful, much to his pleasant surprise. He returned to his room as quietly as he could to not disrupt his wife, but as he entered he saw a disheveled Ozma; she tried to hide her worry behind a gentle scolding about his dirty clothes and Denam could not help but smile. He removed his boots, trousers, and shirt and tossed them into a pile where the servants would take them to the wash. He walked over to the bed and placed his sword onto the chest beside it, where his other belongings were kept. Denam's expression was dark as he slowly walked back into the bath chamber to wash himself, even though he had just finished a bath earlier; after all, Ozma would not tolerate dirt in their bed.

* * *

><p>Denam's return was relatively uneventful for the next days. During that time, he agonized over whether or not to confront Catiua about Vyce's comment about their, apparently, existing relationship. It was as if Denam could never simply be calm and have a time free of worry. The closest he ever got was when sitting next to Ozma, holding her close, running his fingers through her hair and leaning into her, sharing mutual space. Ozma's effect on him was instantaneous. Denam was relaxing as such, Ozma curled against him as they rested in their bed. Denam let his muscles ease and his body meld into his wife's, breath inhaling and exhaling in time with one-another. They remained as such until Denam finally spoke up, his troubles surfacing.<p>

"Why do you think Catiua hid the truth about her relationship with Vyce from me?"

Ozma looked at Denam as if he were child and fool, her tone spoke that the answer should be painfully obvious. She remained tolerant only because Denam was her husband. "The Queen's reaction is unsurprising, Denam. After all, you came back married to a strange, foreign woman without letting your sister know your intentions."

Denam grimaced and shook his head. "Might I remind you, Ozma, that you are not entirely unfamiliar? You, too, helped us gain our freedom." The comment seemed rational to him, but his wife disagreed, her annoyance fading but still apparent.

"Our relationship is unexpected. Your entire army expected you to propose to Olivya once the war ended." Denam's shock must have appeared on his features, for Ozma touched his cheek playfully. "Don't look so surprised, even I was not expecting you to be so forward with me. It was nice." She paused, her tone becoming more serious. "Our relationship is abnormal to all but you and I, my love. You are already on dangerous terms with many Valerian nobles due to your actions in the war. They see you as a usurper, or possibly even Lodis' regent, manipulating the Queen from behind a velvet curtain." Denam once again wanted to deny her words, saying he would certainly never do such. Despite his obvious indignation, Ozma continued defending her stance; she was truly talkative at times, in firm contrast to Denam's own casual silence. Her brother had been the same way. "My own presence in Valeria does not help. While I admit to lacking fondness for these islands, they also lack fondness for me. I am well known amongst the former-Bakram people and to them, you likely appear on Lodis' leash."

It all sounded ridiculous to Denam, he hated the nobles and their annoying political games - even though he had once been part of them - but he also understood Ozma's rationale. Denam finally nodded and Ozma softly pushed him away. He immediately longed for her touch once again. "My love, go speak with your sister; make things right again." Denam almost spoke, ready to deny her, but Ozma stopped him with a finger over his lips. "Siblings are very important."

Denam sighed, deflated, knowing immediately he had lost the argument. Any mention of "siblings" was Ozma's victory cry. Given her own relationship with her now-deceased brother, Denam could not deny his wife whenever she mentioned siblings; he had tried once before, only to end up enraging her. In spite of his hesitation, Denam slid out of bed at Ozma's insistence and decided to visit Catiua and confront her about his worries. Denam lazily brushed his fingers through his tangled hair; looks had never been his highest priority and he usually let Catiua decide what looked appropriate. Now he simply kept the style because it was what he was comfortable with. Ozma frowned at his lack of proper brushing but said nothing, knowing she had already demanded enough of Denam. After learning over and kissing his wife, Denam put his boots on and ran his hands down his shirt and trousers hoping to remove any wrinkles before exiting the room and walking to the royal meeting chambers.

Denam was pleasantly surprised to learn that Catiua had immediately canceled her appointments to make time for him. While happy at Catiua's warm reception, he also felt the urge to scold her for her selfishness; Denam did not want her work to suffer on behalf of him, but knew the scolding would have to wait for later, he had more important issues to contend with. As Denam entered, Catiua immediately ordered water and some of Denam's favorite snacks. Denam allowed his sister to show him around her office, nodding whenever Catiua showed passion for a specific gift or item. She seemed quite fond of some small dolls in particular; Denam had been surprised, for his sister had never been fond of such girlish things. When Denam had asked who sent them, Catiua had quieted and murmured "They were a coronation gift."

It did not take long for his perceptive sister to notice something was amiss. They had sat down across from each other at the large table shortly after looking at the dolls. Denam said nothing, simply enjoying his sister's presence, but also agonizing how to properly word his thoughts. As Denam took a sip of his water, Catiua's frustration finally got the best of her she hit her fist against the table in a surprising bout of temper, causing Denam to withdraw in shock. After a short coughing fit from swallowing too quickly, Denam cautiously murmured to his sister:

"Vyce mentioned he was finally pursuing you." Denam was able to hold back the spite from his words, but he did allow his worry to seep into them, letting his sister know that he was troubled at the revelation.

This earned him an odd look from Catiua, who replied with caution and curiosity.

"Is that what he calls it? We've not done anything out of the ordinary."

Denam could hardly believe his ears. Either Vyce was exaggerating and trying to rile Denam, or Catiua had completely missed Vyce's attempts at courtship. Denam knew it was likely a mixture of both, his own experience told him that Catiua was remarkably narrow minded at times, seeing only what she chose to see and refusing to accept anything else. Vyce, in turn, was an odd young man, surprisingly forward about his beliefs and loyalties, but the moment Catiua was mentioned he went silent and became submissive, hoping only for them to be together.

"Have you seen him today? We had an. . .argument last night."

Catiua frowned. "We broke our fast together. He seemed to have a lot on his mind, but he was respectful, if distant. Are you sure you're simply not over-thinking the issue? You always did worry too much about him."

"No, our conversation was quite unpleasant." Catiua was giving Denam a curious look but didn't press the subject. "I've no doubt he will not speak to me for some time, but I worry for him. If he says anything odd or acts strangely, please let me know."

"Of course, brother. Now let's stop this somber conversation so early in the day and speak of more pleasant subjects."

Denam slowly nodded; he did not feel ready to change the subject, but he also still needed to speak to Catiua about Olivya. Catiua had no intention of turning the conversation in Denam's desired direction, instead, given it was their first true meeting alone since Denam's return, Catiua questioned Denam about what was apparently a subject of rumors throughout the country.

"Let's talk about your wife."

". . .What about her?" Catiua glared. Denam didn't react; he was used to Ozma's far more intimidating glare and his sister's own inexperienced look did not frighten him. He chose to answer simply out of respect for Catiua, rather than because he had any interest in elaborating on his relationship. "We are very close." Catiua tapped her dining utensils against the side of her plate in annoyance. Denam didn't understand, was his marriage truly so fascinating? "What would you like to know?"

Catiua's voice started out calmly, but the pitch raised as she continued her questioning. "When did your relationship begin? What of Olivya? Why did you head to Lodis instead of Xenobia? What are you planning to do now? Why was I not invited to your wedding?"

It seemed Catiua had been holding back her rage at Denam for some time. Denam decided to answer as briefly as possible, knowing Catiua's mood would not be sated even if he elaborated. It seemed Denam would truly get no rest this entire trip; he almost wanted to return to Lodis early. "Our relationship began in Krysaro." Catiua glared at the vague answer. "That's the truth, Catiua. It is difficult to define when exactly it started, but it was likely some time after Hobyrim's death. Ozma was upset; I helped her." This earned a nod from his sister, whose eyes took on a haunted look at the mention of Hobyrim. She motioned for him to continue. "Olivya is a companion and I do not wish to lose her trust, however, I do not share the same feelings for her as she does me. My memories of her are as a sister, rather than someone I could take as a lover." Catiua kept her face friendly, but Denam saw her demeanor darken at the 'sister' comparison. Was Catiua jealous of Olivya? _Why?_ "The decision to go to Lodis was one that occurred only at the last minute. I could not allow Ozma to go alone." An annoyed snort from Catiua. Denam ignored it and answered her last questions. "As for now, Ozma and I are having a house built in Galius, its locale is lovely and it suits Ozma's status. You were not invited to our wedding because it was a surprise affair; Ozma's family demanded the marriage occur as soon as possible due to extraneous circumstances." Denam felt like he was reading off of a parchment, he wished his sister would have asked her questions more slowly so he did not have to be so brief and formal.

"Ugh! Enough, brother. You frustrate me so and you do not even intend to!"

"I'm sure the feeling is mutual, Catiua. If I've upset you, I'd like to leave."

"No!" Catiua breathed out quickly. "No. I apologize, brother." Catiua paused and brought her hands together. She fidgeted a bit, as if hiding something. Denam stared at her, letting Catiua know he could tell that he knew she was being secretive, but did not push. Instead, Denam took another small bite of the snacks Catiua had ordered for him, pleasantly surprised at the familiar taste. They had been a rare treat when he had lived in Golyat, he almost felt like Catiua was intentionally spoiling him. An odd thing, that, since she seemed to be angry at him.

"I-I'm sorry I didn't tell you brother. I was so angry about Ozma that my mind was unable to focus on anything else." Denam found himself filled with anger; was he not entitled to his own relationship without constant judgments, even by his own sister? "Vyce and I might have been spending some extra time together recently, I admit." Catiua kept her head down, ashamed. "But I would not consider it 'courting.' He supports me and assists when overwhelmed with my work."

Denam smiled through his annoyance; even though they were not currently on good terms, Denam could respect his friend's devotion and reliability. If Vyce could ever calm down enough to stop being so emotional and reactive he would make a fine husband for Catiua. "Have you thought, Catiua, that his support is Vyce's way of showing you he cares? He is not one to speak the words directly."

Catiua's eyes went wide at the revelation and then she started nodding. "As you mentioned it earlier, I feel I must tell you. My guilt eats away at me for my actions and I cannot hold my words back any longer. He was acting a bit strangely this morning, I admit; I might even call him distressed. He tries to hide it, but I know Vyce well enough to tell something was wrong. Is there anything I can do? He is always there for me, I wish to aid him as well."

Denam's smile remained, but shook his head. "Vyce desperately needs your support, Catiua, now more than ever. I've no place to speak of what ails Vyce, but know that he will tell you when he is ready."

Catiua sighed, but nodded her acceptance, before standing. Denam followed suit and pushed his chair the chair into the table as he recognized his dismissal. "Thank you, brother." Denam nodded as he turned and walked to the door. Before he could leave Catiua called to him. "We're having dinner tonight. I will speak to you tomorrow if all goes well." Denam acknowledged the comment with a small bow and exited, heading back to his room to discuss the revelations with Ozma.

* * *

><p>Denam was exhausted, sore in muscles he did not know he had, and wanted nothing more than to lounge in bed all day with Ozma. Ozma, apathetic to Denam's plight, and had woken up early and began wandering around their room, cleaning and organizing. Denam did not know how she did it; after such a long, active night he felt like he wanted to melt into the warm sheets under the sunlight. It was odd for Denam to feel such, but for what felt to be the first time in his life, Denam was satisfied. After speaking with his sister, his worries had faded and his stress was minimal. Ozma respected his desire to remain in bed late and, once she was satisfied with the cleanliness of their room, she sat beside him, fully clothed. Denam encircled his arms around her waist and rested beside her until she finally put her hand on his shoulder, lightly shaking him and telling him that midday would be approaching soon and that it was time to rise.<p>

Stretching almost painfully hard, Denam slid out of bed with a disgraceful stumble and walked over to the bath chambers. He sat gently into the new water the servants had poured at Ozma's orders and let himself relax for a bit longer, enjoying the feel of the warm water on his body and the steam rising into his nostrils. Taking his soap and wash, Denam rubbed the slimy object over his body, scrubbing roughly, causing his skin to redden. Denam washed his hair, pushing it back as he kept his head partially submerged, imaging he was floating in the warm ocean, the small laps of water waves over his face. His reverie was shattered when he heard loud voices coming from the outer room. The sound was somewhat muted from his ears being under the water, but definitely there. Quickly finishing his wash, Denam hopped out of the tub, rubbed himself over with a towel roughly, and walked over to his chest, only to see that Ozma had already chosen his clothes for him. It was an odd fancy of hers; Ozma enjoyed dressing Denam, always choosing what she thought looked best rather than what was reasonable to wear. Denam did not complain; he disliked shopping himself and most of his clothes were old and worn, so he allowed his wife to do such with very little complaint. The fabric on the clothes was soft to the touch; Denam knew they had cost quite a bit, for they were from a very inordinate shop that Denam had been very wary about entering. Though he disapproved of the clothing, Ozma would always only pick the most elaborate and luxurious Lodissian fashions, he quietly dressed himself and brushed his hair with a small comb, accepting that it was more attractive than what he would buy. He walked out into the guest chambers to find an upset-looking Catiua and a subtly-annoyed Ozma sitting across the table from one another, drinking tea. Denam walked over and bowed to Catiua and kissed his wife, before sitting next to the latter, ignoring Catiua's glare at the lack of attention. Ozma poured him tea with a warm look, seemingly amused at Catiua's reaction. Ozma spoke first.

"The Queen has been telling me that her male has been disobedient." Ozma's wording was intentionally meant to annoy the younger woman and Denam could see Catiua bristle, words having their intended effect. Denam, still somewhat relaxed, did not scold his wife for the words, only choosing to shake his head lightly, wet hair falling in front of his eyes. Catiua spoke next.

"I spoke of dining with Vyce, remember?" Denam nodded. He had wanted to know how their supper event had turned out. Catiua elaborated without Denam needing to ask. "It was a disaster!"

"Are you well?" Denam inquired, worried.

"Yes, of course. Vyce wouldn't hurt me." Denam slid his arm around Ozma's waist as Catiua spoke, a troubled expression on his features. "It was as if the Vyce from last night was a completely different man than the one we knew and grew up with. He was even acting so differently from when I spoke with him a few hours before, slightly after you left. I-I don't understand it at all."

"Perhaps the boy is nervous?" Ozma offered. "He does not seem to do well in holding in his emotions; he might have taken them out on you."

Catiua nodded, her eyes dark. "I hope you're right. When speaking with me this morning, he didn't seem to think anything was wrong. He was back to his normal persona, friendly, supportive, gentle. The Vyce I know. He didn't even mention what happened last night!"

Denam spoke up, murmuring. "Perhaps he regrets his actions?" Denam did not know exactly what had happened or what the two had argued about, so it was difficult for him to comment accurately, despite knowing his friend well. His comment earned him a scolding sound from Ozma, who seemed to disagree, but she said nothing as Catiua continued.

"I certainly hope so! I don't think I could tolerate Vyce always acting like that."

Ozma laughed, shocking Catiua. Denam knew that laugh well; it meant she was plotting something all together unhealthy. Ozma murmured, but her tone was bold and firm, sending signs of confidence - but also submission - to his sister; Denam knew that was exactly the attitude Catiua appreciated. "If you cannot tolerate him acting such, you train him to do otherwise." Denam shook his head, eyes closed. His fears were properly founded, he almost wished he did not know his love as well as he did.

Catiua looked horrified at the very prospect. "Certainly you're not serious?" Denam knew Ozma was not joking and so said nothing to alleviate her worries, letting Catiua think Ozma was teasing her. It was better for Catiua that way; if she started acting in Ozma's manner, the entire country would be doomed. Thankfully, Catiua decided to ignore the comment, much to his wife's displeasure, instead speaking pointedly at Denam. "I'm meeting him again tonight. Perhaps I am overreacting."

Ozma's murmured quietly. "Not all men are you like your impassive brother." Denam frowned at his wife's judgement and Ozma ran a hand down his face gently, an act of fondness. Catiua once again purposely ignored the motion as the elder continued. "Like us, men have different ways of expressing anger and frustration. Be tolerant, you are the only one who can do this for him. You must, if you desire a future together." Denam nodded his agreement, even though he was lightly annoyed at being spoken of as if he was not there, and Catiua continued frown. Ozma waved Catiua off in an annoyed manner, obviously dismissing her, surprising both Catiua and Denam. Denam was shocked that Ozma would treat a Queen as such and Catiua shared the sentiment, now familiar with others treating her only with respect. Ozma didn't seem to think anything was wrong with her action. Ego wounded, Catiua stiffly got up, not bothering to finish her tea, giving Ozma a hard look before smiling at Denam and leaving the room moving very quickly, worried expression on her face.

Denam attempted to rise as well, but Ozma held onto him, keeping him in place.

"Is this about the unfortunate news?" Ozma questioned, taking a small nibble on a cracker.

"I assume so. Vyce has always been irrational; I fear I might have pushed him over the edge."

"But Catiua" Denam noted Ozma refused to speak of her as Queen. He certainly understood Ozma's lack of respect for his sister, even if he did not agree with it. "Also spoke of him acting normally earlier in the day. Something is off, my love; the pieces do not fit together. Perhaps he toys with her?"

Denam shook his head. "He has loved Catiua for years. Unless Vyce has decided to take a new approach to courtship, his relationship with her seemed to be stable and healthy."

"Perhaps he decided to start acting the man instead of a pet?" Ozma examined her nails, which had started to grow now that she was not armored every day. She roughly picked at the cuticle of her index finger.

"You are forceful. Is that really necessary?" Denam scolded her softly, finally awake enough to risk conflict.

"It's the truth, even if you refuse to speak of them so. I've an external view on the situation; it seems to me that Martym's brat should be treated as his father."

"Beaten to death in the depths of an unholy tomb?" Denam replied dryly; Ozma rewarded him with a bright, vibrant smile that made his heart warm, despite his own twisted words. Her own thoughts of Martym were surprisingly similar to Vyce's.

"As of now, that is unnecessary. The boy simply needs someone to put him in his place. I assume you've been doing that for most of his life." Denam nodded cautiously. Her words were accurate, calming Vyce could be said to have been employment in earlier years. "Perhaps he's stretched his leash too far while you've been gone." Ozma seemed to be musing on something.

"Vyce made it very clear that he has no intention of speaking to me again." Denam pointed out.

"What he wants is unimportant. He hurt your sister; it is your duty to protect her." Ozma spoke firmly, using words that she knew Denam would react to: _sister, protect, duty_. Accepting his wife's rather harsh wisdom, Denam nodded submission and again attempted to stand; Ozma released him on this attempt and Denam offered her a hand. She took it, standing gracefully before she walked into their private chambers to lounge on their bed, picking up her book off of the bedstand. Denam once again felt the urge to go sit next to her and simply relax, but knew his worries would not allow him to do so. Ozma most certainly would not expect him to, she knew he was proactive and desired to go solve the odd mystery.

Denam walked into their room following his wife. Though out of his way, he kissed his wife gently as she looked up from her now-open book. Denam knew it to be a rather popular romantic horror novel that she had brought from Lodis. Both Denam and Ozma were fond of such small romantic gestures, such as kisses before leaving, for they allowed them to share a moment of silent bonding. Finally satisfied, Denam left his wife to her own devices in their room and walked over to his boots, musing as he put them on. It had been one of their relationship's larger surprises; whenever she was not practicing weapons or magic, Ozma loved sitting by the fire or an open window and reading. He felt bad about leaving Ozma, knowing she often got upset when alone too long, but Denam also knew he had to confront Vyce, whether he wanted to or not. Ozma was not taking this trip to Valeria well, and Denam felt his own conflicts were hurting her inadvertently. He resolved to keep his worries hidden so that Ozma would not suffer.

After questioning a few Bakram guards, a surprisingly large number of which who had been hostile towards him, Denam headed to the main dining room where he had learned Vyce was. To his rather unpleasant surprise, Vyce approached Denam as he entered looking somewhat subdued, but also calm. It was obvious by Vyce's body language that he intended to speak with Denam. Denam met with the other man, cautiously holding out his hand in greeting. Vyce took it, murmuring a quiet greeting.

"I'm glad I found you, Denam. We need to talk; I've reserved a table for us." Denam quietly followed his companion to the table, allowing him to lead, letting none of his apprehension show. They were silent for a few moments, until the servants came. Denam ordered a meal for both himself and Ozma; even knowing that she might not take well to Valerian cuisine, she would be flattered at the thought behind Denam's actions. The servant had been somewhat appalled at Denam's outrageous order, mumbling respectfully that _those _meals were particularly expensive and usually reserved only for special events. Denam ignored the servant's words, only giving him a firm look, not accepting "no" as an answer.

After the servant left, the two sat in uncomfortable silence. Denam was unwilling to speak, for all he spoke of forgiveness, his wound was still raw. He also knew his rather rude show of power over the servant made his friend uncomfortable. Denam internally pondered on if such actions were really out of the ordinary for him, as he had been giving orders to his soldiers for some time. Belatedly, he understood his companion's reaction; the servants were not soldiers, Denam should not treat them with such directness. Regretting his discourteous manner, Denam kept to himself, making sure to thank the servants when they delivered anything to the table attempting to make up for his rude behavior. It was almost fifteen minutes before Vyce finally spoke. He was fidgeting the entire time and his words held sadness

"You and I both know why we're here." Denam didn't bother nodding, instead choosing to keep his gaze on Vyce, who could not meet his own cold eyes. "My words were inappropriate." Vyce finally bit out. It was as close to an apology as Denam knew he would receive and Denam finally warmed his demeanor letting Vyce know he acknowledged the silent regret. To his surprise, Vyce wasn't done. "But, Denam, I'm still worried. Are you sure Ozma is-"

Denam made a hiss, interrupting Vyce, body language immediately hardening again. Surprised at his own actions, Denam tried to speak gently, but it came out annoyed; his body refused to speak the same language as his voice. "She has shown no such hostility, Vyce. Let bygones be bygones."

Vyce shook his head, unwilling to accept Ozma's innocence, but also knowing enough not to push a subject that Denam was obviously defensive about. He did make a point to purposely glare the choice of clothes Ozma had picked for him and Denam cursed his lack of foresight on that particular subject, knowing they only hurt his cause. Vyce changed the subject as gracefully as he could. "It feels as if my entire world has been shattered, Denam. Remember when you found Olivya?" Denam nodded, calming as Vyce changed the subject away from distaste from Ozma. After Denam had met Olivya, he had been told he was Bakram; it had taken Denam weeks of shock to truly accept it. "I was spiteful to you then; the Walister had appeared to be taking a stand for themselves, but then I learned the Walister leader to be a Bakram! The same people whose shadow we attempted to raise ourselves from were once again determining our future. With the New Walister Alliance I thought it was the people's chance to speak up, but as I see it now, my spite towards you was simple hypocrisy." Vyce breathed out softly, eyes downcast, examining the table.

"It could not be helped, Vyce. You know as well as I that many events are out of our control." His words came out with surprising apathy, despite their kind intentions. Their air between them electrified and Vyce bristled in annoyance.

"And you hate that, don't you?" Vyce sneered before catching himself. Denam could tell he regretted the words and so said nothing, again accepting Vyce's wordless apology. "Ugh. Do you not see, Denam? It tears me apart."

Denam thought of saying that time would ease his wounds, but in Vyce's case, it might not be the truth. Denam continued his silence, knowing full well that anything he said would sound conceited. Instead he took a drink of the water the servants had brought earlier, features an impassive mask, attempting to appear as if he did not judge his friend for his actions.

"What I wouldn't give to have a day in the head of yours, Denam." Vyce shook his head, seemingly a bit more amused. Denam gave a small, uncomfortable smile, not entirely sure what his companion was referring to. Noting the slight lightening of his friend's mood, Denam calmly asked the question he had come to this meeting for.

"Vyce, what happened last night?"

Vyce looked confused, frowning. "What are you on about?"

Denam glared in return. "Catiua said your dinner date was unpleasant."

"Dinner date." A flat statement. "I can't say I remember anything particularly odd happening."

"Catiua was distressed." Denam pointed out; he wished he had spent some more time questioning Ozma on what Catiua had said, because Denam felt he was slashing into the darkness, having so little information on the events that had occurred. "I believe your stress might have caused you to snap."

Vyce was quiet. "I didn't realize. . ." He trailed off before nodding. "I don't want Catiua harmed by my own foolishness. Thank you for letting me know. But. . ." Vyce frowned, seeming even more confused. Denam didn't push, expecting Vyce to continue, but the explanation never came. Instead, they were interrupted by the servants bringing their midday meals. Denam picked at his food, saving most of his appetite for Ozma. Vyce did the same, but Denam was unsure of why. Vyce stabbed at his for food a quarter of an hour before finally sighing and lifting his tray. "Apologies, Denam, but I've a lot on my mind." Denam watched as Vyce took his leave, letting his relief show once Vyce had turned his back to him. Picking up his own trays, Denam slowly walked back to his room, feeling more confused than ever.

* * *

><p>Denam woke early the next morning, well before Ozma. Ozma had stayed up late, shaking and upset. Though strong, she often unintentionally released her weakness in her sleep. Denam had held her and stroked her as she cried. Her tears distressed him in a way he didn't understand, sharing in her pain and loneliness as he never had with anyone else. Denam loathed admit it, but he also felt a bit of jealousy at the depths of his mind. He knew she cried for her brother and for Hobyrim, the latter still sharing a large part of her heart. Despite always showing her strong front, Ozma was a broken woman who was just now picking up the pieces of her life. Like himself, Ozma was confused and didn't know what to do when not in battle; the peace tore her apart and she did not know what direction to take her life. She wanted nothing more than to fight for a betterment of her country; their current temporarily passive lifestyle caused her nothing pain, making Denam feel responsible for his wife's sadness. Denam knew that when their home was complete, Ozma would likely once again start serving her country, but perhaps in a different way than Loslorien. Unless Balxephon and Tartaros were slain, Denam could not see Ozma ever returning to that particular profession, though she often spoke with passion of remaining a Templar and Knight of Lodis.<p>

Denam gently attempted to lift Ozma's head off his shoulder, unfortunately waking her. Ozma clutched at him for a moment before realizing what she was doing and lifting herself off of him; out of respect for his wife, he pretended her moments of weakness never happened. Denam slid out of bed as Ozma stretched and called the servants to tell them he wanted warm water for their bath early this morning. As soon as he returned to their bedchamber, Ozma clutched onto Denam, running her fingers through his hair; Denam breathed deeply and leaned forward onto her in response. She ran her hands over the small bruises covering his chest and arms, almost-but-not-quite apologetically. It had taken Denam some time to understand, but he had been relieved when he had finally come to the revelation that Ozma was only truly harsh during their couplings when she was upset. It was her release, and though it was painful for him, Ozma seemed to enjoy it and he allowed her to continue with no complaints. Ozma kissed one bruise on his shoulder and slid her hands around his waist. Denam returned the gesture and they remained as such until the servants finished.

The hot bath did wonders for Denam's sore muscles. With his wife in the tub with him, he could not lean back and relax, but her presence alone was calming enough that he did not need to. To his surprise, Ozma spent some time massaging his back and washing his hair, scolding him that he needed to focus more on upkeep - his hair needed a trim quite badly, apparently - especially once they returned to Lodis, where he would be expected to look his position. Denam had stilled temporarily at the last comment, Ozma making a point to show she noticed his hesitation. It was odd, despite having planned to leave Valeria, Denam was still wrapping his mind around his unexpected future in Lodis. Denam had severely misjudged the people of the country, finding them to be not the villains he had imagined, but normal, if a bit arrogant, people. As he relaxed, coming to a temporary understanding of his future, Ozma continued her ministrations. Ever so often, Denam stiffened as Ozma hit a particularly tight muscle; in recent years, massages had been nonexistent, so when his wife first offered, he had cautiously accepted. Ozma had been horrified at learning Denam was unused to such pleasant touches; though she said she did it to please her husband, Denam quietly assumed she loved having him at the mercy of her hands. At Denam's calmness, Ozma smiled and began speaking of Lodis again, of what she wanted to do, of what _they_, she put emphasis on the word, would do to fix the country. Denam didn't know if he could handle leading another revolution any time soon, but he humored his wife, knowing it to be her dream of a better future.

As she finished speaking, Denam turned to Ozma, returning the favor, massaging her shoulders as he rubbed her body down with soap. Washing his wife's hair was an event in itself and it was one reason why he was glad he was not a woman. It took quite some time, and though Denam was able to give her the moderate pleasure of a scalp massage, Ozma ended up annoyed and finished on her own. As she did such, Denam ran the soap over his own body lightly, not wanting to irritate his wounds.

After he felt sufficiently clean and relaxed, Denam lazily stepped out of the bath, towel around his waist covering his private regions. Ozma remained in the water, continuing to condition her own lengthy hair. Stretching and groaning as he walked along, wanting to get a drink of water, Denam was surprised when he entered the guest chambers only to find Catiua sitting at the table. Despite his sister having seen him nude for his entire life, Denam still blushed and covered himself, hoping Catiua wouldn't comment about certain marks covering his body.

Catiua didn't seem to be paying attention to his exposed form, instead choosing to get up and walk over to Denam. Her eyes had a haunted look to them. She slowed as she neared Denam, gaze finally noting the bruises and welts on his chest, shoulders, and abdomen. Denam found himself blushing, but to his surprise, Catiua gently ran her hand over the bruises healing them. Ozma would not be pleased; she preferred to heal them herself.

"Are you well, Denam? Did you practice too much in the fields yesterday?"

Denam coughed, not sure how to answer. Catiua seemed to be expecting one and he softly murmured. "Yes, ah, I practiced a bit too much. Do not worry about me, Catiua." Denam took Catiua hands and removed it, stopping the pleasant feel her healing. "Are you well? Are you here about Vyce?"

Upon hearing Vyce's name, Catiua's features darkened. Denam was relieved when her attention seemed to be off him and his "adventures in the field." His sister started pacing the room, barely even paying attention to Denam, who remained stationary. Catiua started ranting, her voice changing from angry, to upset, to confused and back again. "The man is mad! I swear that he purposely makes my life difficult. Nothing has changed, brother! It's as if he's a completely different person; gone is the calm, severe man who stands by my side in support, instead I've an irrational, emotional boy who makes jests on my account and attacks my incompetence!"

Denam refrained from correcting her and saying that it appeared Vyce was most certainly acting normally. Instead he tried to gain a deeper understanding of the situation. "Calm, sister. I supped with Vyce yesterday after our discussion; he told me he had no intention of causing harm to you."

"That is why I am confused, brother. He visited me once again this morning with a warm smile and even held my hand! He has never been so bold before. Vyce was back to being shy and respectful! The Vyce I saw last night was another man all together. I feel as if he thinks our relationship is naught but a joke."

As Catiua finished, Ozma walked out from their room, hair brushed but still wet, dressed in a loose informal dress that exposed far too much of her bust, much more than Denam would consider appropriate on any woman. Ozma owned a few dresses of the sort and though he disapproved of such immodesty, he secretly peeked, enjoying the way it clung to her. He heard her soft laughter as she noticed Denam's own partial nudity and she approached, sliding her hand around Denam's neck in a very possessive motion, glaring at the younger woman's closeness to her husband. Catiua unintentionally took a step back and Denam could feel Ozma's silent laughter as he shook his head. Once again, Denam cursed the odd relationship the two seemed to have. Ozma ran her hands down his chest, gently healing the soft bruises and wounds, the pleasant tingle of Ozma's light magic paired with her touches was remarkably distracting; Denam feared he might not be able to control himself. Denam attempted to keep his tone neutral as he replied to Catiua, hoping to keep his mind on the situation at hand and not the very pleasant way Ozma's hands were running over his body.

"Are you sure you did not say anything? Vyce is troubled, even an accidental remark could have set him off." Denam knew the truth of his own words far too well. Ozma's hands were purposely exploring lower than was appropriate in the presence of another, having found their way down below Denam's towel. Catiua blushed and turned away.

"I didn't have a chance to say anything at all! During our earlier outing, he mentioned liking my hair up, so I styled it up hoping he would think it attractive, even if I didn't like it, but the first thing he said was:" Catiua looked ready to cry. Denam didn't understand it. "'You can't even think for yourself!'"

Ozma interrupted before Catiua could continue, her tone surprisingly spiteful. "He's right. Do not change yourself for a man. You are Queen, act it!" Denam sighed; it was his turn to interrupt before this turned into a disaster.

"Call him for supper tonight, Catiua. I will come and watch and see if he acts strangely simply to spite you."

Catiua brightened immediately, purposely ignoring Ozma's presence. "Truly?"

"Yes." Denam nodded. "Send a servant with the time. I will be there." Ozma made a small sound of disapproval, but said nothing. Her hands had stopped exploring, only to go back to holding Denam possessively.

"Thank you, brother. Hopefully we will solve this and return Vyce to normal." Denam forced a smile as Catiua fled the room in embarrassment at Ozma's intimacy.

Denam hesitantly removed Ozma's hands, holding them together between his own as he turned to her.

"Ozma." His tone was stern and to his surprise, Ozma looked down, almost in shame. "Was that necessary?" Denam's words pushed, causing Ozma to sigh.

"No." Ozma looked upset; Denam believed he knew the reason, and he was going to get it out of her whether she wanted to discuss it or not. He continued staring sternly and Ozma finally spoke, her voice quiet. "You know I cannot tolerate her, Denam. I warned you on the ship that I might snap."

Denam nodded softly; Ozma _had _warned him that she would not tolerate being around Catiua. Ozma's grudge stemmed from Barnicia castle, where Catiua had battled Denam's Order alongside Lanselot Tartaros. At the time, Denam had seen Ozma as little more than an interesting companion to discuss strategy with, though Ozma's own varied skills had helped Denam learn more about battle and leadership.

"You do not hate me for my mistakes." During the battle, Denam found himself confronted by Catiua, who had apparently rejected the arts of Priesthood for something different all together. Denam had tried everything in his power to understand Catiua and her emotions, but she had been hostile and refused to listen to reason. Denam had been able to disarm her sword, leaving her only armed with a dagger; in a moment of weakness, he had been unable to strike her, instead staggering back as Catiua prepared to fight to the death. But immediately Catiua's attention had been drawn elsewhere: to Lanselot Tartaros and his duel.

"It was not a mistake to hesitate in harming your sister." Ozma whispered. "It was her mistake in slaying Hobyrim." Denam had no words for Ozma; he knew her struggle in Valeria was linked entirely to this event, even the death of her brother had not incapacitated her so, or so she had told him. Instead of using words of pity he had no skill in, Denam grasped his wife and held her, supporting her in the way that only he could. She refused to cry, but she was shaking, holding back her pain. Denam wished he could absorb it from her so that she would suffer no longer.

To his surprise, Ozma pulled away after a moment, her expression unreadable. "I admit, I've been selfish, Denam; I am no different than your sister. I do not want you harmed again, by her, or by your irrational friend. He is dangerous and, if he is truly like his father, unpredictable and rash. He could attack you and you would be unprepared, still assuming he is the companion you once knew him to be!" Ozma clutched at Denam's shoulders and met his surprised gaze. "If something happened to you, I do not know what I would do."

Denam lifted her chin. "Nothing will happen, my love, I swear it. If something does" Denam paused and Ozma breathed in anticipation. "You will go back to Lodis and fulfill your dream. You will live in our house, and free the country from its bindings. I know you're strong enough, even without me." Denam's morbid words caused Ozma to exhale with a soft, almost silent cry of desperation.

Denam released her chin, lifting her hands from his shoulders. Ozma remained motionless. He walked into their room and picked out his clothes; Ozma had not had time to choose them for him. He picked out Ozma's favorite shirt, a pair of his own favored trousers, and some traditional undergarments and quietly dressed himself. He didn't bother brushing his hair yet, instead swiftly returning to his still wife and taking her by the arm, leading her over to the bed. As she sat down, Denam walked back into the guest chambers and called the servants to deliver their morning meal before sitting back and resting beside his saddened companion.

The day was long and uneventful. Ozma's mood seemed to lighten at Denam's continued presence. She would often smile and tease him in her own way - a blunt, harsh manner that would have offended him had it been from anyone else - reminding Denam exactly why he chose her. They slept on and off during the day and Denam felt it nice to have a free day to himself, even if he felt as if he was avoiding the responsibility of dealing with people. As night fell, a servant called and told Denam that the Queen was expecting him in her chambers to sup. Denam dismissed the servant quickly, but was annoyed to find their quiet words had disturbed his dozing wife. As Denam wandered the room he felt Ozma's eyes upon him. Denam slid on his sword and buckled it around his waist. He walked back into the room and brushed his hair, before finally turning to tell Ozma he was leaving. Before he could speak, Ozma gave him a sad smile.

"It is good that you want to protect your sister." She murmured. "Tell her I apologize for my actions earlier. My hatred will not be calmed so easily, but for now I can accept that I must share my husband's loyalty." Her voice was a bit stronger now, even if she held sadness in her words. "It would be selfish of me to demand otherwise, for my loyalty is shared as well." Denam felt a pang in his chest, knowing the truth in her words. It hurt, whenever she mentioned that she still cared for Hobyrim; Denam knew he would never erase those feelings, but he also did not doubt that Denam made his wife happy. Denam certainly knew Ozma made him happy and there was no-one else he would rather spend his life with.

"I will be careful." Denam assured her, attempting to alleviate her earlier worries about Vyce's dangerous and explosive reactions. Ozma shook her head. Her vulnerable look was gone, but Denam knew she would not be happy until she was back in Lodis fighting rather than sitting in hiding, avoiding the hostility of the Valerians. Despite showing weakness to him, Ozma still held back much; he knew it must be difficult visiting a country full of people that hated and wanted her dead.

"It's hard, love." To his surprise, Ozma had risen and approached him. She had a surprisingly playful look on her features, much like the one he remembered her having the night of their wedding. That night, Ozma had shown Denam where she had grown up, but she had spent a particularly long time showing him her brother's room. When inside, Ozma had pushed him roughly against the wall and demanded he had take her right there, much to his own shame at defiling what seemed to be a sacred locale to her. Ozma only seemed to enjoy it more. "I am coming with you."

"I dont-" Denam paused at Ozma's glare. It was good to see her full of life again, the sadness hidden behind her own strength. Ozma's sadness harmed him just as much as it did her, and whenever his wife showed such happiness, he found himself unable to deny her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. If the boy, or even the girl, are foolish we will both set them right." Denam motioned to Ozma's dress in worry; she pointedly ignored him, instead going over to the chest where she stored her favorite whip and grasped it lovingly. She slid its holder over her shoulder and around her waist, causing the dress to hug her curves pleasantly. Denam thought her wearing a dress to what could possibly end in battle to be a horrible idea, but refrained from saying so, knowing Ozma knew it as well. Ozma took the small comb from Denam's bedstand and used it to quickly brush her own hair before placing it back down. "Come love, we're going to be late."

To Denam's surprise, unlike when they had first arrived, many of the Valerians did not stop to gawk at Ozma as they walked through the halls. Whenever one did, Denam would stop and curl his arm around her waist protectively letting them know he accepted her and so must they. Even though she did not show it, Denam knew that Ozma liked small public displays of affection and possession, especially when some of the men eyed her. Denam received more attention than his wife, though, particularly from former soldiers who previously served under him. They would habitually stand alert as he passed and Denam would nod, causing them to calm. Denam secretly appreciated the gesture of respect; when they did such, he understood his wife's desire for action in her own country, their respect gave him life and strength.

Catiua's guards eyed Ozma warily, even after Denam assured them that the Lodissian meant no harm. Ozma was being surprisingly patient and quiet, to Denam's relief. When confronted about her passiveness, Ozma only smiled. "I enjoy watching you interact with the men. You look happy and alive, something I don't see as often as I would like."

The answer baffled him. He certainly didn't feel any different when interacting with them compared to as he had always felt. "I do not understand, love. I am always happiest and most satisfied with you." Though Ozma smiled in return, she had a mysterious look about her, as if Denam had misunderstood. She seemed to have no intention of elaborating.

Vyce had not arrived when Denam and Ozma entered Catiua's room. Catiua eyed Ozma warily before turning to Denam with a bright smile. She rushed over and gave him a hug and Denam noted she had chosen to keep her hair down for the night, in contrast to what she said before about what Vyce enjoyed. Denam returned his sister's hug slightly uncomfortably and pushed her away gently, meeting her gaze.

"Is everything prepared?"

"Why is _she _here?" Denam ignored the question, looking through the room. It was fairly secure, Denam immediately noted an overabundance of candles used to keep the room light; the more shadows, the easier an assassin could hide. Ozma understood his action; she swept into Catiua's private chambers ignoring the look from the Queen. Satisfied there were no threats in the current guest room, Denam nodded to his sister.

"All seems adequate."

"Brother, sometimes I think you forget that we're not at war anymore."

Denam internally frowned, not letting his feelings on the subject show, finding himself slightly annoyed at Catiua's tone. "Even at times of peace there are threats; do not lower your guard so easily."

Ozma returned as Denam was scolding his sister and spoke up on his behalf.

"Your brother is right. Though all appears to be at peace, tension can rise from under the surface at any time. You must be prepared once it does."

Catiua looked frustrated, but didn't disagree, instead choosing to sit down at her end of the table in defeat. As if on instinct, Ozma walked behind her and stood protectively from behind. Catiua seemed a bit uncomfortable having the other woman at her back but remained silent. Denam watched the door warily, not quite sure what he expected from the evening. To Denam, Vyce simply seemed irrational and nervous, and to some extent both were understandable. Vyce had never been good at expressing his feelings, but now, according to Catiua, now his actions bordered on unhealthy.

The room was uncomfortably silent until a knock sounded on the door and Catiua called for the servant to enter. The servant seemed a bit frazzled, but quickly stammered that the guest had arrived. Denam was immediately alert and walked over to the chair across the table from Catiua and mimicked his wife's action, making sure Vyce would not forget his presence. Vyce swaggered in a few moments later in a way that Denam had not ever seen from him. He noticed Ozma's eyes darken at Vyce's entry; Vyce himself hesitated for a moment noting the new presences in the room, before he walked over to the table and sitting down, purposely ignoring both Denam and Ozma. Denam nodded at his sister as he put his hand lazily on the back of Vyce's chair. Catiua cautiously smiled at Vyce, who held a subtle, hidden anger behind his own smile; Denam thought it looked more like a smirk.

"Thank you for joining us tonight, Vyce." Catiua spoke cautiously. "I know we didn't end on the best of terms last night. . ." Vyce snorted and Denam heard him mumble about idiocy, but couldn't make out his words. ". . .but I hope we can overlook that and perhaps try to approach this as calm adults?" Catiua finished meekly. Denam could almost see his wife sighing.

"Calmly." Vyce replied in a flat, annoyed tone. "So you bring your traitorous brother and his Lodissian wench" Denam made sure to keep his face impassive at the remark, but it didn't stop Catiua's eyes from darkening. "on a night meant for us?"

Denam supposed the situation could be worse. It was wrong to say of Vyce, but these were somewhat expected remarks, having recently seen the darker side of his friend. Despite his relative normalcy, Denam also sensed the truth in Catiua's words; why had Vyce regressed into a state of negativity when he seemed perfectly rational when Denam spoke with him before?

To Denam's shock, Vyce's attitude changed almost in an instant. The annoyed look turned into a smile and he started quietly chuckling. Denam found the sound unnerving and grasped his blade in one hand and the top of the chair in the other. Catiua squirmed in discomfort and looked down, unable to meet Vyce's gaze. She nibbled at her bottom lip, unsure of how to proceed. Denam felt for her; after so long of lusting for her, when Vyce finally had a chance, he was destroying their relationship.

"Let's get married."

The entire room went silent. Ozma had actually physically withdrawn in temporary shock, and Denam worked his mouth closed. Catiua, the poor girl, brightened immediately and Denam found himself shaking his head at her attempting to tell her that something was very wrong with the situation. Catiua ignored Denam and immediately brightened, speaking up happily with a bright hope.

"R-Really? Do you mean it?"

"No." Vyce took a bite of the prepared food and Catiua's visibly deflated, her shoulder dropping and head turned down, but Denam could see anger brewing behind her sadness; he could not blame her for being angry, his own wife had a glare in her eyes that whispered of one wrong move and Vyce's head would be on the floor, even if she had to use Denam's sword to perform the feat. Denam thought it a bit charming; despite Ozma's dislike of Catiua, she still abhorred the mistreatment of the younger woman.

Catiua's eyes temporarily brightened again. Denam knew the look; she had something planned and whatever it was would only lead to disaster.

"Oh, and why not?"

"A good wife wouldn't question her husband." Denam could tell Ozma was ready to explode. He mused on going over to the other side of the table to calm her down, weighing the pros and cons of who was more dangerous when angered, she or Vyce. He finally chose to stay near Vyce; Ozma would not hurt his sister, and if she did choose to attack the other man, Denam would be in range to stop her.

The answer seemed to please Catiua. Whatever her plan was, Denam knew he wanted nothing to do with it.

"But a good husband wouldn't speak such to his wife." Catiua lifted her fork as if it were her scepter and pointed it at Vyce. "We're going to get married." Denam felt like going back to bed and curling up into a ball, Catiua could not have made this supper any worse. Was Catiua being bold simply because of his presence or had she gone as mad as Vyce?

Vyce grasped at his knife until his knuckles were white before cutting into the meat; Catiua had spared no expense, for it seemed to be a thick cut of Dragon steak. Denam unintentionally did similar, with grasping the hilt of his blade again until his knuckles were white. Realizing his reaction, Denam took a calming breath, knowing anger would get him nowhere. Someone in this room needed to be the rational mind, and Denam seemed to be the only one capable of doing so. Denam gently interrupted his sister.

"Are you sure that's wise, Catiua?"

"Absolutely." There was not a hint of questioning, for her mind was set. She stared at Denam as if he should understand exactly why she was doing this, but Denam only found himself even more lost. Perhaps she thought Vyce was being shy? Or nervous? The longer the meal went on, the more Denam began to doubt shyness or nervousness had anything to do with Vyce's cruelty.

"I'm not going to marry a selfish child." Vyce declared, purposely speaking with his mouth full, chewing loudly. Denam offhandedly knocked the back of Vyce's chair with his knee. It hurt, he knew he would have a bruise later, but Vyce coughed in shock from the motion and gave Denam a glare. Denam remained expressionless, as if nothing had happened, as Vyce returned back to his food.

"You took the words right out of my mouth!" Catiua smiled brightly. It was forced and faked, Denam could tell she was getting ready to crack as well. Ozma's rage was certainly not helping the situation, he'd no doubt his sister could feel it radiating off of the elder. "That's why you're going to get some special training!" Ozma's eyes brightened and the look of glee in them was horrifying. Vyce saw it too and slid his chair noisily from the table, causing Denam to stumble back. Denam noticed Vyce had finished his steak.

Vyce was backtracking, Denam knew. The situation was not in his favor. His jaw was clenched and he was sweating. "Don't you understand? I never liked you!" Denam felt the oddest sense of deja vu. "No, it was never about you, it was about having what your brother didn't." Catiua's smile was gone now and her lips were pressed in a firm line. Ozma had removed her whip from its holder and was dangerously examining it, snapping it loudly at Vyce's pause. "I'm not interested in you! All of your subjects know you fantasize about riding your brother every night." Ozma stopped and glared between the two, not liking that one bit. Denam knew he would have to have another discussion with her about how she need not fear any sexual relations between he and Catiua; Denam loved his sister, but Ozma was the only one he had any interest in touching.

Vyce spat out his last comment. "I don't see how any creature above a donkey would be interested in such a hose-faced half-breed like you!"

Something wasn't right. The Vyce Denam knew would never have spoken to Catiua as such. No matter his mood, no matter how upset, he would not have spoken such harsh words about the woman he had loved for years. Denam was starting to agree with his sister; something was wrong. Vyce walked over to the door in anger, exiting the room with a growl. Catiua immediately called her guards in.

"What are you waiting for? After him!" She hissed.

"Let him go." Denam spoke firmly to the guards, overriding his sister's commands. His tone brooked no denial and, thankfully, the men nodded to him, bowing cautiously to Catiua, who looked angry at Denam's command. Denam knew he would hear about his insubordination later, as he should - Denam admitted it was not like him to speak over his liege, even if his liege happened to be his sister. Denam knew that dealing with Vyce was something he had to do himself, the guards would only make matters more difficult.

He walked over to Ozma and gently murmured as he held her hand, calming any further rage. He whispered softly enough that Catiua was unable to hear.

"I apologize; I was not expecting Vyce to act such. I will go after him soon, but I need to you watch Catiua for me."

"He is unable to help it; 'tis his foul blood." Ozma spoke with spite before she gently released Denam's hand and nodded. Ozma understood the trust required to put the safety of his sister into her hands. Denam turned back to Catiua.

"It seems you were right sister; something is off. I plan to find out what."

"He did not respond as I intended. . ." Catiua murmured, finally showing her weakness. She was stiff in shock, not moving and barely responding, likely watching the events in her head over and over again. Denam shook her shoulder softly, getting her attention.

"We'll leave him for a time." Denam declared firmly. "Chasing him now will only promote his irrationality. I will speak with him once he has calmed some. Sister, you should not have provoked him." Denam scolded.

"I thought to make it easier on him." Catiua responded indignantly, offended at Denam's unintentional condescending tone. Denam didn't reply, knowing that doing so would only provoke his sister's anger further. His presence enough would calm her with time, so he remained close, holding her hand. Surely enough, a few moments later, Catiua sat back down and continued supping as if Vyce had not left at all. Her motions were hesitant, almost sad, and Denam knew he needed to solve this mystery for all of their sanity.

To Denam's surprise, Catiua poured a third cup of wine and offered it to Ozma, who once again calmly stood behind her protectively. Ozma looked at the goblet cautiously, not sure what to make of it, before taking it and softly sipping. Denam walked around the table and sat down in the chair Vyce had previously been at; he ran his hands through his hair and massaged his forehead, attempting to prevent his approaching headache. Was Vyce thoroughly sadistic or did he unintentionally make Denam's life miserable?

They sat in silence for a time until Catiua got up and headed into her bedchambers, likely to change into her nightclothes. Ozma followed silently, guarding her with what seemed to be a practiced experience. Denam noticed that Vyce's wine had not been touched, allowing Denam to conclude that it was not alcohol souring an already foul mood. Denam swirled the goblet, bored, again musing on Vyce's decisions. Denam could think of no reason why Vyce had been so cruel to Catiua and it bothered him. Perhaps Vyce had started to loathe everything Denam stood for? Perhaps he had been acting - trying to show a stronger face? But if so, why had he acted so differently during their meeting in the day and this evening? And why would he do such? What did Vyce seek to gain? To Denam it appeared he had nothing to gain, but everything to lose.

Catiua came back out in her nightclothes and Denam stood up quickly, not willing to reveal his moment of weakness and confusion. Catiua looked a bit happier and more confident now that she had time to calm herself.

"Denam." She walked over to her brother. "I'm sorry you had to see us act so immaturely." She sighed. "I don't know what was going on in my mind when I decided to be so forward."

"You've nothing to apologize for."

"Indeed." Ozma interrupted, a small smile on her face, but also looking very pointedly at her husband. "Denam could stand to be a bit more forward himself."

Catiua turned and frowned at the other woman, before ignoring her once again. Denam thought the two were remarkably childish together; it was especially odd considering the differences in ages. Ozma was far too old to be acting so immaturely; he had even watched her consider a rivalry between she and Catiua that did not exist anywhere but in Vyce's head!

"Denam is fine the way he is!" Catiua snapped. Ozma nodded in approving agreement at the acceptance of Denam's faults, before lapsing back into her responsible silence. Denam chose to ignore both women; he could not handle their verbal sparring this evening, even if it seemed Ozma was willing to concede defeat. Catiua spoke up again after a moment. "He only started acting strangely a few days ago. He seemed very depressed for a day soon after you arrived. You wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that?" Catiua's tone wasn't accusatory, but rather curious. Denam felt himself meeting his wife's eyes. Ozma had _that _look on her face again. He looked away, not quite sure what to say. Catiua noticed the exchange and clenched her fists. "You do know something!"

"It is not right for anyone but Vyce to speak of." Denam spoke with a wisp of regret. "Vyce needs to get through his troubles on his own, with your support, but it is no excuse to act as he has been."

"Damn your duty and tell me!" Catiua spoke loudly, causing Denam to turn away. No matter his sister's tantrum, he would not betray his friend. Denam rose from his chair and walked slowly over to the door before bowing to Catiua and swiftly exiting without a word in reply and before his sister could stop him. Catiua could not see past the end of her own nose at times; she would understand why Denam acted as he did later, even if she was presently upset.

Instead of immediately asking the guards about Vyce, Denam walked back to his shared room with a subtly annoyed stride. The patrols seemed to understand his body language and did not call him over. After unlocking his door, Denam immediately walked over to the tables and poured himself a glass of now-warm water, taking a sip. He continued over to the padded sofa, sitting down and staring at his reflection in the drink; his expression was dark and unreadable, even to him. Frustrated, Denam put the glass down on the side table and leaned his head back, trying to ignore the pounding in his forehead. Denam sat, resting, for an undetermined amount of time before finally dozing off into a dreamless nap.

When Denam awoke, he found himself resting horizontally. Upon further inspection, his left arm was tingling and his headache was gone, only to be replaced with a thick grogginess. As he looked around, he realized his head was in Ozma's lap and she was smiling down at him. Denam returned the smile before slowly lifting himself off of her.

"Is Catiua safe?"

Ozma nodded. "Yes, she is off to bed. I would not have left her, otherwise." Ozma stopped Denam from getting off the couch and brushed her hands through his tangled hair, attempting to fix the snarls with her fingers. Denam smiled at the fond action as Ozma continued. "You've been asleep for two hours or so." Had not intended to rest for so long; Denam immediately was on alert, grogginess fading into the back of his mind. "You will go after Vyce." It was not a question, nor was Ozma expecting an answer. Denam sat up quickly, causing his head to reel with dizziness and his wife to softly remove her hands from his hair. In return, he kissed his wife on the forehead, showing his affection. He stretched, his hands lingering on her arm for a half-second before he turned away without a word. Belatedly, he noticed his boots were still on; he was surprised Ozma had not scolded him for dirtying their floor.

Denam did not question his goal; he knew Vyce would be in his room. Vyce always fled to his room when upset. Denam had asked him once why he did such, and Vyce had replied that because it was the most obvious place to look, and therefore the last place people expected someone in hiding to return to. Denam had in turn quietly pointed out that he now knew the young Vyce's secret hiding place, but Vyce had confidently replied that he was sure Denam would not tell anyone.

Vyce's chambers were large. Despite his relatively low upbringing, Catiua had promoted him and he was now a man of importance and respect. Denam was glad for his friend, Vyce was devoted and loyal, despite his rather ridiculous temper, and he deserved his promotion. Denam stood outside his friend's door silently, unable to hear anything behind the thick wood, but Denam knew he was in there. He listened for a moment until being shocked by a loud crash against the door and the sound of something shattering. Denam took a step back, but realized after a moment of silence that Vyce hadn't been alerted to his presence. Denam felt as if he was walking on glass; a single wrong move would impale large pieces into his metaphorical "feet." Denam held his breath and knocked firmly. There was no reply.

After a few minutes of waiting, Denam knocked again. Vyce had gone purposely silent, and Denam knew the other man was waiting for him to go away. Denam would not tolerate Vyce's childishness and knocked more strongly. Vyce continued his silence, but Denam heard an annoyed scuffle from just inside the door. Once again Denam knocked, calling in:

"Vyce, open this door at once. I can hear you in there."

Vyce finally threw the door open and, as Denam expected, Vyce had been waiting just inside. Denam's first view of the other man caused a shocked silence; he was dirty and smelled, his eyes had a glazed over look to them. Looking to the floor, Denam saw a broken bottle that he assumed to be what had made the crashing sound against the door. Before Vyce could react, Denam pushed his way into the room, causing Vyce to stumble out of the way. From his slowed reactions and lack of balance, Denam could tell Vyce was intoxicated. The room was a mess, not unexpected from his friend, for Vyce had never been good at keeping his room clean. The chambers smelled terrible; Denam didn't want to muse on what could have caused such a smell, but he walked over to the window, pushing it open in attempt to introduce fresh air to the stuffy room. Vyce followed him angrily, his steps slow and off balance. Turning back around, Denam confronted his friend.

"What is going on, Vyce?"

"Leave me alone!" Vyce slurred in annoyance. Denam shook his head.

"You're cruel to Catiua, and when I find you, you've drunk yourself into a ridiculous stupor and can barely control your bowels let alone your mind! You shame yourself, your country, and everything you've been raised to be."

"Lies! All of it!" Vyce turned around and flung his empty bottle into the air. Denam didn't see where it landed, but a loud crash sounded a moment later. Denam was about to speak before Vyce continued on his ridiculous rant; Denam felt he was saying too much of nothing. "What does it matter how she sees me? She's only ever been interested in you. When you're gone, it's always 'Denam this! Denam that!' I've no doubt she fingers herself every night imagining it to be you." Vyce spat onto the ground in front of Denam. "You and your sister are probably having sex on the side, as it stands. Then you'll have a brat, but because you're married, it's 'wrong.' Ozma, cruel witch as she is, will beat him because it's not hers, before selling it into slavery when she gets bored!"

"I know you don't believe such." Denam's tone was confident, but internally he could not believe Vyce was implying such.

"Of course I do. You bring with you only pain and suffering. Everything you touch goes mad."

"Including you?" Denam sighed. He wanted to sit down, but all of Vyce's chairs had items on top of them, some broken bottles, others dirty clothes or armor. Instead he leaned against the wall near the window, relaxed, trying not to instigate Vyce further with an uptight, defensive posture.

"_Especially _me! Even now you revel in my sorrow. It gets you off, doesn't it?" Vyce stalked over to his table and opened up another one of his rum bottles, taking a long drink and gulping in air afterwards.

"No, Vyce." Denam was exasperated; it was as if Vyce didn't want to help himself. "You're hurting, but you're also hurting Catiua. Why?"

"Catiua? What do I care of her? When I was a child, perhaps, but I am not so blind now." Vyce pointed at Denam with his bottle, causing some of the contents to slosh onto his clothes. "You're the same way. You've moved on you with your life, to let Catiua lead her own. For all you cry about 'sister,' you abandoned her easily."

"I did no such thing." Despite the firmness of his words, Denam worried over Vyce's remark, for it would certainly not have been the first time he unintentionally abandoned Catiua. "Vyce, open your eyes! We've all changed, but it is you who pushes us away, not the other way 'round."

"As always, you fail to grasp anything. You project your short-sightedness onto me, but 'tis you who cannot see beyond his own small, secluded world."

"Then tell me!" Denam finally burst out, façade shattered, chest heaving in exhasperation.

Vyce was silent for a long moment. He turned away from Denam and looked to the roof. He was wobbling back and forth and Denam feared he was going to fall over. He dropped his bottle, causing the remaining contents to splash all over his leg. Vyce seemed to be ignoring Denam. Denam slowly approached Vyce from behind, circling around his front as to not threaten him. Vyce didn't move; instead, he starting humming to himself, an old song sang by sailors from Golyat that Denam had not heard in years.

"Vyce?" Denam whispered. Vyce didn't respond. Denam took a step back, not sure he understood what was going on. They stood there like that for what seemed to be five minutes before Vyce finally looked down, eyes bloodshot and a frightening smile on his features.

"Leave now, Denam." Vyce took on an utterly foreign tone. Vyce's voice had lost its slur and was spoken in a crueler way than Denam had ever heard pointed in his direction. "Take your false-pity and pretentious apathy with you; do not return."

Denam wanted to shake Vyce and tell him to stop being a fool, but knew it would get him nowhere. Instead he simply did as Vyce asked and left the room in silence, leaving Vyce to his own ridiculous ramblings. Denam was certain his friend had gone mad.

* * *

><p>Denam woke the next morning alone. He panicked for a moment at his wife's absence but was relieved when he heard her voice off in the guest room; it seemed she had woken up early. Denam sat up and flipped his legs over and out of bed, feeling less sore than the previous night but certainly more upset than ever. In his sleep, Denam had tossed and turned, constantly waking, angered at his own incompetence.<p>

Hearing Denam walking about, Ozma called to him. "Love, come over here."

Denam obeyed, simply because he had nothing better to do other than bathe, ignoring the fact that he had nothing but his nightclothes on. Ozma smiled at him when he came into the guest room and patted the chair beside her. Denam noticed Catiua sitting across from her; it was not that Ozma had gotten up early, Denam had once again slept in. Ozma elaborated at Denam's confused look as he sat down.

"Catiua has decided to take matters into her own hands." Ozma's tone was approving, a fact that worried him. "Vyce is going to be punished for his insubordinate and childish actions and you are going to help her."

"I am?" Denam asked, while Catiua spoke at the same time "He is?"

Ozma nodded. "Yes. The boy needs to be punished for his insolence. You're to be Queen and you cannot even control your soon-to-be-husband, let alone a country! Denam is going because he needs to learn to be forceful as well." Ozma's tone was self-satisfied, as if she had everything planned. Denam wanted to take his bath and pretend the conversation never happened; it was far too early for this nonsense.

Denam paid little attention as the women spoke, instead pouring a glass of water for himself and leaning his head down on the table. Nothing good could come of this, they should just leave Vyce be for a time; he needed to solve his own issues. Their presence was simply making him worse.

"Do you understand, Denam?"

"Pardon?" Denam murmured lazily, looking up at his wife's expecting face. She frowned.

"Catiua is going to take you into town today. I will provide some tools for Catiua, as well as capture our prey. By mid-afternoon, all will be in place for when you return." Ozma's voice had turned into a pleasant sing-song and Denam knew this was a disaster waiting to happen. As tempting as it was for Denam to feign illness, to look of hope on Catiua's face and the vibrant smile on his wife's broke down his barriers; he simply could not deny them.

"Very well."

"Then hurry and dress yourself!" Catiua's bright tone was surprisingly obnoxious to him this morning and Denam already could feel a headache coming on.

"Silence, gir-Your Majesty." Ozma quickly corrected herself. Grudge or no, she was still a respectful woman when she wanted to be. "He needs to bathe. Denam hasn't been well, do not push him."

Denam gave Ozma a warm, thankful look, which she returned and patted his hand gently. Catiua spoke with regret in her tone.

"I see. I've been selfish again, not thinking of how this hurt you, as well. Ravness has been scolding me about only thinking of myself, but it seems she needs to do so more often."

Denam walked into his room ignoring the rest of Ozma and Catiua's conversation. Ozma had picked out clothes for him again. Denam sighed, seeing that once again they were in her favored Lodissian style; he almost put them back into his chest and picked out another set, but decided against it. If Ozma liked the clothes, he had no qualms wearing them. Denam was more worried about unintentionally provoking a negative reaction from the people, considering the already ridiculous rumors floating about.

Walking over to the bath, Denam immediately noticed the pleasant smell of Ozma's wash throughout the chamber. She had already used the bath and Denam felt a tinge of regret that he had not been with her. Stepping into the still-warmed water, Denam relaxed. He ran the sponge over himself, not caring that it smelled of Ozma's soap. He picked up the nearby shampoo that Ozma had ordered for him, it smelled of the woodlands near where Ozma and Denam chose to build their home; Denam enjoyed the scent, for it was surprisingly familiar - he would even call it nostalgic.

After cleaning his hair, Denam once again relaxed into the water, enjoying the pleasant scents and feel of the air and water around him. He let himself doze for a time before finally forcing himself out of the water; it was almost painful to do such. Drying himself, Denam shivered at the morning chill from the open windows. Denam slipped into his undergarments and trousers. Picking up his thin shaving knife, Denam walked back into the bathroom and rubbed soap onto his face. He carefully slid the small blade along his features, removing the short hairs. It was a delicate, precise process and Denam had done it often enough that it was almost instinctual and an art. After he finished he washed his face and put his top on, buttoning it up the neck. The top was elegant, if a bit tight, since it was built for a flashy noble rather than someone who actually wielded a sword often, like Denam himself, but Ozma continually assured him that it looked better that way. In matters of clothing he deferred to her opinion, likely because Catiua had constantly assured him that he was helpless in matters of fashion as he grew up. Denam finished by brushing his hair with a small comb, not bothering to do anything formal with his hair.

Feeling clean, but not entirely awake, Denam walked back out into the guest chambers only to find Catiua standing around pacing uncomfortably. Ozma looked him over with an approving nod and turned her head down, going back to reading her book that she pulled out. Without a word, Catiua pulled him along by the arm; Denam was a bit uncomfortable with being unable to bid his wife good day, but Catiua was insistent and impatient. As soon as they were out of the room, Catiua let out a sigh of relief.

"While I am glad for her assistance, your wife's bluntness and honestly are almost too much. I do not know how you deal with her sometimes!"

"I can appreciate that she is willing to tell me when I am being a fool." Denam stated the simple truth. Despite her rather brash manner, Ozma was warm and romantic with him, but Denam knew Ozma would permanently maim him if he let word spread on that subject.

Catiua sighed. "Dame Ozma gives adequate advice, but I feel that I need more than one opinion on the subject." Denam nodded and followed his sister, who seemed to know where she was headed. After a few steps, she paused for a half-second and spoke before continuing. "Did it hurt?"

Denam was thoroughly perplexed by the statement, unsure if he heard correctly. ". . .Excuse me?"

Catiua seemed irked, as if Denam should know exactly what she was talking about. Denam remained silent until Catiua finally stopped abruptly. Denam slid to a halt and Catiua whispered to him with unrelenting stubbornness. "When Ozma punished you, of course."

"What are you talking about?" Was Denam's tentative reply; the conversation only seemed to become odder. What had Ozma told his sister?

Catiua huffed in frustration. "Dame Ozma says that women from Lodis must show men who rules in their relationship. They do so by beating them until they submit."

". . ." The entire idea was ludicrous; Denam knew of no such tradition, nor had Ozma ever done anything similar to him. For that matter, Ozma had never 'forced Denam into submission;' instead they shared responsibility and respect for one another, even when Ozma was in her sadistic evening moods. Was Ozma teasing his sister? What had Denam missed while he was sleeping and bathing? Denam's silence seemed to satisfy Catiua, but he knew his sister had misinterpreted its meaning.

"If you do not wish to speak of it, I understand, Denam." Denam sighed, changing the subject.

"Where are we going, sister?"

Catiua's turned and started walking again, taking Denam's hand and pulling him along. She didn't answer, which worried him; it meant that he would not like their destination. Catiua led Denam in the direction of the western wing, away from his and Ozma's room and towards the important noble, _and Vyce's_, Denam added to himself, chambers. Their short excursion ended near an unfamiliar door, but Catiua seemed to know where she was and knocked pleasantly.

Denam heard a feminine call of "A moment, please." from inside that sounded somewhat familiar, but he could not place the voice. The door opened slowly a few seconds later and a cautious Sherri peeked her head out. At the sight of Catiua, she smiled, but at Denam she frowned and glared. The reaction was unexpected; Denam was one of the few people Sherri remained on agreeable terms with, or at least she had been before leaving with Ozma.

"Sister, who is it?"

Denam definitely knew the second voice. The last time he had heard it was on the docks of Heim, standing beside Ozma, as it cracked and tried to remain strong. Sherri slid the door open for Olivya, who stood behind her. Olivya's eyes widened at Denam's presence before looking away, her features a mix of anger, confusion, and sadness. The grounds for Sherri's rage were apparent now and Denam suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Before he could excuse himself, Catiua held onto his arm and smiled brightly.

"We apologize for the interruption, but I desperately need your advice."

Sherri was still eyeing Denam cautiously, but she seemed to have no issue assisting Catiua. Olivya took a few steps back, not realizing she did so, before stopping herself and holding her ground. Denam tried to meet the woman's eyes, but Olivya had no intention of clearing up her distrust. After a moment of contemplation, Sherri moved from the doorway allowing both Catiua and Denam to pass.

Sherri escorted Catiua over to her large couch, much more formal than Denam's own guest room, he absently noted. Catiua sat, but Denam retained his distance, not wanting to provoke unneeded hostility. The females seemed more comfortable with him on the other side of the room and while Denam was admittedly dejected, if Sherri knew some way to help Vyce, he was willing to tolerate the rejection.

"How may we assist, Your Highness?" Catiua waved the other woman's formality off, but Sherri ignored it.

"Vyce is being difficult. We are trying to find a way to return him to normal."

"Elaborate, please. 'Difficult'?" was Sherri's concerned reply. Olivya remained silent, looking at her hands. Her refusal to speak to Denam only brought on a subtle annoyance that he did not show.

"Perhaps 'difficult' is not the right term. He acts as two men!" Denam nodded, but was unsure if any of the women saw or cared. "During the day he is kind, shy, respectful. Even this morning he was a completely different man than he was last night, and he does not acknowledge what happened over dinner." Catiua visited Vyce while Denam had been asleep? Denam was concerned at Catiua's foolishness but also agitated at her for refusing to divulge that particular tidbit to him. Denam's mood was turning sour very quickly.

"Have you spoken to him about it?" Sherri asked the obvious.

"Of course. Denam has as well." Sherri's gaze unintentionally slid over to Denam before turning back to Catiua. "After three disastrous encounters and multiple attempts at speaking, we've decided that drastic measures must be taken against him." Catiua declared with finality and surprising authority. "We are going to punish Vyce. "Catiua smiled as if it were the answer to all problems.

To Denam's shock, Sherri clasped her hands and smiled. "Excellent. Vyce has been nothing but problems far too long, he needs a good beating if you ask me."

Denam thought he misheard, but Olivya finally spoke up, stopping Catiua from replying. "I agree." Olivya hesitated a half-second before continuing, with more force this time. "But Denam should be punished, too!" Denam found himself blushing at the comment; that Olivya would bring their previous relationship up at a time like this was unnerving. She held a subtle cruelty that he hadn't expected.

"You will have to speak to Dame Ozma about that, Olivya. I've no right to beat my brother, it is Vyce who worries me." Olivya gave Catiua a sad smile at the mention of Ozma's name before going back to her silent observation. "You've no way I could get Vyce to speak?"

"Men are difficult creatures." Sherri declared. Denam disagreed; he thought he was very simple. "Have you tried alcohol? It loosens many a man's lips."

Catiua shook her head, but Denam quietly spoke up. "Last night I spoke with him and he had been drinking. He refused to tell me anything. He speaks hateful words and wants nothing to do with me." Denam neglected to mention that Vyce had acted very similarly the night when he had told him of his heritage.

"Denam seems to know why Vyce is acting such, but he refuses to tell me." All three women turned to glare at him. Denam stared forward meeting each of their eyes, unwilling to give into their bullying. Sherri finally sighed and spoke, conceding Denam the "victory."

"You've tried leaving him alone for a time?" Denam wanted to hug the elder woman; he was glad someone else finally understood what Vyce needed. Catiua snapped.

"No, I cannot afford to wait. Vyce is causing chaos throughout the castle. Surely even you've heard the rumors." The women nodded in return. Denam kept his expression flat, but internally he was upset. How much information was Catiua hiding about Vyce and their relationship? Had Denam really changed so much that she did not trust him any longer? Surely she did not take the rumors about Denam seriously; had Denam's decision to go to Lodis really harmed their relationship that much? Just when Denam felt his relationship with his sister was back to "normal," he learned that Catiua continued to hide information from him; it stung, and Denam was filled with a surprising bitterness towards her that he regretted a moment later.

Sherri hesitated before sighing in defeat. "It pains me to admit, but if you cannot find an alternative drastic measures must be taken."

Olivya spoke up again. "Are you sure, sister? Catiua? Vyce could be a completely unrecognizable man when you're done."

"Vyce is strong." Catiua'a confidence was infectious. "He will not break easily. 'All the better for me,' or so I'm told." Denam could tell Catiua's quote came from his wife. While he supposed it showed some positive progress in the women's relationship, it also worried him that Ozma was putting such ridiculous ideas into his sister's head.

"If you'd like, I will call the guard for a public flogging." Olivya murmured.

"No. None but Denam and I will touch him."

"What?" Sherri and Denam spoke in almost choreographed unison. Olivya, too, looked shocked at the statement. Denam had no intention of "touching" Vyce, let alone "beating" him, as Catiua was implying they were to do. Catiua gave Denam a hard look at his response before she continued.

"If you'd like to come, we are preparing a public exhibition for later today." Olivya looked ill and, while Denam couldn't hear her, he believed she was mumbling about passing, for she had other plans for the evening. Sherri's face was impassive.

"If my mood fancies a public flogging this evening, I will be sure to come."

Catiua stood and smiled, Sherri mimicking the action, understanding their discussion was over. After a few words of respectful thank, Catiua walked over to Denam and grabbed his arm again. Denam resisted the urge to force his arm from her hand and turn away, instead submissively letting Catiua lead him. Denam bowed to the women as Catiua led him from the room; to his frustration, Olivya still refused to acknowledge his presence, but painfully he also accepted that their relationship might be impossible to mend.

"Catiua." Denam spoke, surprised at the coldness of his own tone, as they exited the room; Denam quietly shut the door behind them. "What other details have you neglected to tell me? I wish to help, but I will not wander in blind."

". . .I'm sorry, Denam." Her tone did not sound apologetic, instead rather wistful. "Our bond is not the same as it used to be. We are not children; I no longer need a guardian, I need a friend. I have Vyce to protect me now - and you have Ozma." Ozma's name was venom on his sister's tongue. "Please, brother, let me be selfish this last time."

Deflated, Denam simply nodded. In less than a year, his sister had grown up and Denam had not been in Valeria to see it. Denam had promised to always protect her; he felt that he had not only let down Catiua, but himself. What was he to do when the one he protected no longer needed him? Denam did not resisted as Catiua again led Denam down the halls towards the great hall and to the exit of the castle. In order to keep his mind off of his worries, Denam remained alert, watching every shadow and motion, acting as if they were a threat. When a guard approached Catiua telling her an escort was proper, Catiua declined pointing to Denam. The elder man eyed Denam until Denam finally met his gaze with a cool look. After a moment, the man submitted, bowing to Denam, finally recognizing him at the same time Denam also recognized the guard. Denam had not thought he had changed so much, but certainly it was not only the world that had changed around him. When had it happened? _Why? _Catiua whispered as they walked through the large entrance.

"I'm jealous, brother. I wish my presence had that effect on him. The Captain is a remarkably stubborn man."

"Voltare served with us for a very long time, Catiua. He still sees you as the woman you used to be."

"Then you and he are not so different." Catiua did not turn to look at Denam, instead focusing on the packed dirt road ahead. An odd metaphor for their lives, Denam supposed, even if unintentional on his sister's part.

The bustling city of Heim was a welcome change of pace from Denam's self-imposed partial isolation in the castle. Very few, if any, recognized him, and those that did were too busy to do anything more than temporarily gawk and his and Catiua's presence before continuing on their way. Denam kept his hand on his blade, watching for threats rather than caring about the actual direction the pair walked.

Catiua stopped outside of a moderately large building just off the main street; it was in the upper quarters of the city, so Denam fully expected the business to contain overpriced items meant to swindle the nobles of Heim out of their money. When Denam had mentioned that to Ozma, she had given him an odd look before beginning a rant about the difference in quality between a silken blouse and a cotton one. Denam had stared, eyes glazed, until Ozma made a comparison of weapons between Iron and Damasc, until he finally cautiously nodded, accepting that in some things, perhaps, it was worth it to buy the more expensive item.

A quick glance around the outside of the shop gave Denam little idea of what to expect, the only hint being the large sign that read "Madame's". The words underneath were weathered away; it seemed to Denam as if it were a sleazy establishment meant for selling women, but Catiua didn't hesitate on entering, holding the creaking door open for her brother. Denam cautiously entered, finding the business not quite meeting his rather low expectations.

There certainly were women, but all of the women were well dressed and did not appear to sell themselves for money. It was hot and stuffy in the room and unfamiliar sounds filled his ears, along with soft laughter and words from the young women. Upon entry they were besieged by a large plump woman who bowed deeply to Catiua; Catiua smiled at the woman as she spoke, her voice loud and gathering the attention of all of the working women in the large, open room.

"Welcome to Madame's Fine-Your Majesty! It is wonderful to see you! I hope you are doing well? How may this humble seamstress be of service?" Seamstress? The woman seemed more like a restaurant or Inn owner to him, but he said nothing, letting Catiua mediate their desires to the woman.

"I'm doing well, thank you for asking. We" Catiua motioned to the alienated Denam "require some special garments as quickly as possible." Catiua shifted through her bag and pulled out what Denam believed to be a very large sack of coins. The woman had an absolutely predatory expression on her features, almost licking her lips in delight.

"Of course, of course! Unfortunately, Your Majesty, we do not make clothing for males here." Denam had no need for clothing; Ozma made sure he was well dressed at all times, even when he did not deign to be.

"No, Madame, I would only accept your assistance. We require specialty items."

The large woman seemed amused. "So, he wishes to dress like a woman?"

Horrified, Denam released a strangled gasp before biting out "No!". The women, including his sister and all of the younger workers, seemed to find Denam's reaction absolutely hilarious and erupted into loud laughter that caused the flesh on the elder woman's stomach and thighs to quiver and shake. Denam felt ill. When Catiua's giggles subsided, she declared.

"We require corsets."

Denam was speechless. He wanted to scream how he had no intention of playing whatever game his sister was forcing him into, but his sense of responsibility kept him silent. Catiua mistakenly seemed to think this ridiculous farce would "save" Vyce; Denam disagreed, if anything Vyce would only be "saved" by his own laughter at Catiua's foolishness. Despite his own horror, Denam would respect Catiua's wishes, for a time, as when he moved back to Lodis he would not see her as often.

"I admit, the prospect of fitting a handsome young man like him is intriguing." The woman's smile made Denam incredibly uncomfortably. "Very well, I will see what I can do. Girls, get the measurements on our new customer. Do keep your hands to yourself!"

All of the young women working in the room immediately stopped what they were doing and got up, rushing over to Denam. Denam counted five - no, six women pulling at him, tugging him into the center area without worry for his well-being. One of the women ran her hands through Denam's hair and Denam roughly turned his head, forcing her off in horror. Denam had no particular aversion to touch, at least by his sister and his wife, but these women felt dirty, as if they would try to use Denam for his relationship with Catiua.

"Stop." Denam spoke firmly causing the girls to release him. A few started giggling, and whispered something to each other. Denam grit his teeth praying to his father for the self-control he knew he had. When Ozma had taken him for a fitting, she had stopped the women from their games with a simple glare, but Catiua was too distracted with her conversation about modern corset styles with the owner to care about Denam getting harassed. Finally one of the girls approached him with what Denam knew to be a measuring tape. The woman holding the tape motioned Denam hold his arm out and he did as requested with a cautious glare.

As the one girl wrote measurements down, the others sighed in dejection, and all gathered up their tapes as well. Denam felt the doll as they pulled at his clothes, encircled his arms and thighs, sometimes letting their fingers graze far too long until Denam had to shake them off. The smell of their expensive perfumes merged into a terrible mixture and overwhelmed his senses. One of the women attempted to unbutton Denam's shirt and put her hand down it; the only reason the woman had stopped was because the women started arguing over who should touch him first. Denam was sick of their fawning and they had barely even started! Another of the women, the bold one who had first approached him with the tape, spoke to him.

"What is Lodis like?" Denam could admit the feminine young woman was attractive; her accent spoke of blue-blooded descent. Denam was confused at the comment.

"Pardon? What do you mean?"

"Lodis." The girl's tone implied she thought Denam was being coy and playful. "Your clothes give you away, even if you hide the accent well."

Denam frowned, ignoring the girl's very obvious attempts to put her hands into his trousers. He removed her hand respectfully but sternly._ Patience, Denam, patience. For all you scold Ozma of her temper, you must not be hypocritical now. _These women were near Denam's age, yet compared to them Denam felt he was very old, or perhaps as if his adolescence had been destroyed. He could not imagine himself acting so childish.

"I am not from Lodis." It was the truth, to an extent. Though his application for citizenship had been accepted, not to mention he was married into a Lodissian family and was having a house built, Denam considered himself Valerian; he would always be so.

"Oh?" All of the girls looked at each other and giggled. Denam did not understand what was so funny; he disliked being at the end of a joke he did not understand. Deam refused to answer, but was fortunately was saved by Catiua who finally decided to come over.

"Don't be foolish. This man is my brother; had you paid attention, you would recognize him as the one who led the Resistance!" Denam sighed as he noticed this made the girls' reaction worse. Even the older woman seemed to be examining him now that she knew Denam was a man of standing. In annoyance, Denam removed his glove and very obviously began stroking the ring signifying his marriage hoping the women would simply do their jobs and leave him in peace. His action received no acknowledgement and the girls continued their touching as they measured him. Denam turned his head to his sister, begging for her to intercede, but she sat back, watching Denam in amusement with a small, almost sadistic, smile on her face.

After a time of focusing, Denam was finally able to make out some of their whispers. "Young!" said one. "Not what I was expecting for a military hero!" said another. The bold one murmured "So well toned, too." One girl who had remained silent spoke up. "The rumors say he's quite good with his sword - both of them!" causing them all to burst into uncontrollable giggles and Denam to blush deeply. Denam forced himself to tune the horrible gossip out, a grimace on his face. He certainly knew exactly where he was _not _taking Ozma if she ever chose to order garments in Valeria.

Denam closed his eyes, choosing to contemplate on calm, peaceful thoughts, trying to ignore the pulls of the women touching him. The sound of the waves in Golyat, soft feminine laughter from Catiua, the warm smell of the forest, the feel of Ozma's hair between his fingers, the taste of his father's meals. Though Denam did not have the most vivid imagination he was able to at least partially ignore the prodding. Denam released a long breath he did not even know he was holding when they finally stopped touching him. Opening his eyes cautiously, Denam saw Catiua drop coins into the woman's hand. She bowed respectfully.

"Much obliged, Your Majesty. As requested, they will be worked on and delivered immediately." At the elder woman's, no-matriarch's, Denam corrected himself, glare the women rushed over to the orders and started their work. Denam bowed simply to show manners and fled towards the door as Catiua said her goodbyes. Catiua giggled when she saw him.

"You're so popular with the ladies, brother! They're all over you."

"I do not care for them." It was Denam's turn to lead as he firmly, but not roughly, dragged Catiua back to Heim castle in hope that she had no more ridiculous ideas that included him. Their return trip was uneventful and the moment they entered the halls, Denam excused himself and fled to his room, ignoring the confused looks of the citizens roaming the halls. Denam removed his boots at the door and lay on the couch, his head on the armrest. In his haste, he did not even greet Ozma, a wrong move he regretted a moment later when she was frowning down at him from a standing position.

Denam didn't even offer a smile at his wife, but he did meet her eyes. His mood was dark, confused, and he wanted nothing more than to nap. Ozma recognized Denam's weary look immediately and, though annoyed at his lack of grace, she gently lifted his head, sitting down by him. Denam leaned his head back onto her lap, closing his eyes as she ran her hands through his hair and over his scalp. Denam released a contented sigh, relieved to finally be done with his nightmare of an outing.

"Did you have fun?" Was Ozma's playful question after a few moments of rest. Denam opened his eyes to see his wife's expression to be mischievous.

"Absolutely not."

"You were gone for some time." Ozma mused. "Longer than I would have expected for a simple outing to the Seamstress. Care to tell me where you went?" Ozma's tone was possessive, but also quietly worried. They trusted each other enough to know that betrayal and affairs would never be a part of their relationship, but Ozma still feared that other women would be attracted to him - Denam hadn't realized how well-founded the worries were until today.

"Catiua wanted advice from Sherri. Olivya was there as well." Ozma paused her soft massages and looked Denam over darkly, her possessive nature returning. Denam reached up and took his wife's hand and murmured in reassurance. "I do not think she and I will be speaking on friendly terms again." Ozma grasped his hand and Denam could tell she was regretting her feelings of malice at his explanation. "I learned that Catiua hides much from me; it hurts. When you spoke of your brother hiding the truth from you, I thought it was simply in passing, but now I understand how and why it wounds you."

"What did she hide?" Ozma's tone was sad, understanding.

"Catiua refuses to tell me, even now. She says we've grown apart." Denam closed his eyes again, not wanting his wife to see his vulnerability. The harassment by the young women had temporarily taken his mind off of his turmoil, but now his wound was reopened anew. Denam sighed again. "After that we went to the seamstress."

"Did you enjoy your gift?" Ozma tried to speak pleasantly, but Denam could tell her empathy for him caused her to suffer. His wife was not a naturally empathetic woman, so when she showed what little she had of the trait, it made Denam appreciate her all the more. In turn, Denam tried to lighten his own tone, but his words came out with a bitter, frustrated annoyance.

"'Twould have been a better gift had the women not attempted to court, grope, and molest me every moment they were taking my measurements. No love, stop giving me that look." Even though his eyes were closed, he could also feel the annoyance Ozma radiated, but at his comment Ozma's soft laughter lightened Denam's mood. Denam reopened his eyes; to see her smile and hear her laugh always warmed him, even on the worst days. It did not remove the sting from his sister's earlier words, but it reminded him of the future he had struggled to earn.

"Rest now. When your sister returns you will be busy." Denam did not particularly like the sound of that; Ozma had been plotting again it seemed. He would do well to keep her entertained and happier so that she did not continue these absurd games. Denam thought perhaps it was a discussion best left for later, as for now, he simply wanted to rest.

* * *

><p>It seemed to be a pattern; Denam's awakenings always led to days getting consistently worse and more confusing. Even though it was simply from a nap, this awakening was no different. Denam's head was pounding and, if possible, he felt worse after the nap than before it. He put a hand to his forehead as he sat up; he heard voices, which he assumed to be his wife and. . .someone else. . .a short distance away. Denam was a bit upset that he had not woken to Ozma's presence, but belatedly told himself he had no right to keep her there, for she would be bored with nothing to do. Already Ozma spent much of her time alone doing nothing, she was probably out of her mind as events stood.<p>

Rubbing his hands over his eyes, Denam stood slowly. Ozma and the guest, Denam found himself unsurprised when he saw it to be Catiua, were speaking quietly as to not awaken him, but at his rise they had temporarily fallen silent before speaking a bit louder. Ozma did not seem annoyed at the younger woman's presence, so Denam knew she was planning something. Catiua's attention seemed focused on Ozma's words and she nodded enthusiastically.

"Denam, your new clothes arrived earlier." Ozma's soft words clashed with the impish look in her eyes and Catiua's soft laughter did nothing to soothe his fears. Ignoring the comment, Denam walked over to the nearby table and poured some wine that had been conveniently opened, for himself downing the contents of his goblet quickly. He had a feeling that he would need lowered inhibitions for whatever the two wanted him to do.

"It is three hours past midday, love." As Denam sat down next to his wife and Catiua, he again poured himself wine and listened to his wife's words. "Your prey has been surprisingly cooperative, worryingly so. I believe I understand what was meant when we spoke of 'different people,' for other than appearance, I would not have expected them to be one and the same."

Catiua seemed confused, for Vyce had traveled with them during the war, but Denam leaned over and quietly whispered "Vyce refuses to speak with Ozma, she is not familiar with his more composed self."

"Her Highness also tells me that you've received some requests for a partner this evening." Ozma interrupted and Denam wanted to die. Instead of answering his wife, he took another long drink of wine. Denam hoped Catiua hadn't given personal information about whoever the woman was to Ozma, for he had no doubt his wife was prone to murderous rages when jealous.

"I will not discuss this."

The women gave each other a look that Denam purposely ignored. Catiua patted Denam's hand as she stood from the table, inclining her head respectfully to Ozma. Denam looked to her, if only out of respect, but quickly turned down to his half-empty goblet.

"I'll see you soon, brother. I await you in the courtyard once Dame Ozma has finished with you."

Catiua walked off quickly, a playful bounce to her step. The women seemed to have everything planned; Denam still felt completely lost and the feeling of dread was welling even more deeply inside of him. Ozma got up, and walked over to a box that Denam hadn't noticed before. Ozma placed it on the table before Denam and lifted the top off. Her hair fell into the box as she lifted the thin paper. Denam was horrified to see that inside the box was indeed a corset, just as Catiua had ordered, in a deep royal blue color. Ozma seemed immensely pleased; Denam put his goblet to the side and leaned his head onto his arms on the table. Ozma was making pleased sounds and holding it up; Denam was about ready to take the next ship back to Lodis. Or Xenobia. Or Balboede.

"Up, Denam. Take your shirt off." Denam didn't budge, instead sinking his head onto the cool, hard table. His breath warmed the small area between his face and the wood. "Stop moping, love. You've a boy to punish!"

"Not in those ridiculous clothes. I've no interest in dressing like a woman."

"Come now, Denam." Ozma's voice took on the tone that said she knew she would win, if she had not already won. "At home it is quite fashionable for men to wear corsets under their tops. If it looks nice, I would buy you some when we return."

"I care nothing for 'fashion.'" Denam's voice was muffled slightly.

Denam looked up and saw Ozma was giving him a pouty look; Denam knew _that _look. He would be unable to deny Ozma he kept looking at her and one again sunk down.

"The corset being feminine is a cultural trait found only in Valeria." Ozma fell silent for a good five minutes and Denam felt himself relaxing, his breaths getting lighter and his headache slowly dissipating. The wine was warming him, giving Denam the strength to finally lift his head in confidence. Ozma continued staring, her eyes wide and sad. Denam thought her eyes to be incredibly beautiful and wanted to kiss her sadness away. "Please, Denam?" was her gentle whisper. Denam threw his hands up in frustration, getting out of his chair. He looked down at the offending clothing article. He leaned down and poked it. It bounced back up, with its soft, silky texture. Ozma's arms encircled Denam's waist from behind; he would not decline and the blasted woman knew it. Her hands found their way up Denam's shirt, small strokes sending tingles through his body. Her hands were warm and her feathery touches made Denam melt into her. Ozma's breasts pushed firmly into his back and her hips cupped into his. The rational part of Denam's mind knew Ozma was teasing him, promising the sweet play only if he did what she asked.

Ozma grasped at his shirt, unbuttoning the first buttons on his neck and sliding it over his head. The smooth fabric felt nice passing over his skin. He did not feel the quality of fabric when wearing the clothes, but when it simply grazed over in small touches Denam found it to be remarkably pleasant. Ozma's hands found their way down Denam's arms as she removed the sleeves, finally grasping him and murmuring the damning words.

"We will not continue unless you allow me to dress you as I please."

They remained in the position, Ozma running her hands back down Denam's body, removing his trousers, intentionally putting too much pleasant pressure on his genitals as she slid the garment down his leg and Denam stepped out of them. Finally lowering his head in defeat, Denam nodded. Ozma made a pleased sound that Denam might attribute to a feminine giggle, had he not known better. Denam knew the sound to be one of sadistic cruelty only used when she was expecting great pleasure, unfortunately in this case resulting from Denam's humiliation.

"The blue is not what I'd have chosen, but if your sister likes it, so be it." Ozma mused, picking up the horrible corset. Denam was blushing and it was not even on him. The strong wine cooled his normally wary demeanor and lulled him into a calmness he did not naturally feel. Ozma gently opened the corset and put it around Denam. Denam didn't bother moving or struggling, instead letting Ozma have her way; the feel of the silk corset on his skin was in stark contrast to his own warmth from lust and alcohol. It slid on comfortably, at least until Ozma started tying it. Denam made a displeased sound at how tight it was and Ozma only made it tighter as he voiced his displeasure. He grunted uncomfortably at the pressure on his stomach and chest, but Ozma seemed amused. At Ozma's command of "Breathe in" Denam obeyed, only to find Ozma to pull even tighter. When he exhaled, he found his breaths shallow, the corset limiting them. Denam did not understand how women could tolerate it, even if for attention of the opposite sex.

As she finished tying the corset, Ozma walked around the front, looking him up or down. Denam kept his head up, scavenging what little pride he had left and Ozma nodded approving, talking to herself more than Denam. "Perhaps he should wear these more often, it enhances the already broad chest. . ." Ozma walked off, leaving Denam to watch his wife in confusion. After a moment, Denam walked back over the table and finished what was left in his wine goblet. He poured himself a final large glass and took a smaller sip. Ozma wasn't back when he put his glass down. Worrying about whatever it was Ozma was planning, Denam walked into their private chambers to find Ozma kneeling by her chest, digging through her clothing. On the floor beside her was a small black pair of undergarments Denam was particularly fond of.

"Ozma?" He murmured softly.

Ozma turned and had a bright smile on her face. She picked up her undergarments, got off the floor, and walked over to him. She pointed at his own undergarments.

"Remove them." Denam eyed his wife with wariness. While he was not shy about removing his clothes, he did not understand Ozma's intentions. Ozma tapped her foot in impatience and Denam sighed, doing as he was told. The motion was a bit difficult in the tight corset that limited his motion. Ozma held her black undergarments towards him. Denam stared for a moment before meeting his wife's eyes.

"These are your special undergarments."

Ozma poked at his corset with the hand that held the undergarments, trying to get him to take them. Denam gasped lightly at the fierce poke, didn't move. "Yes, you favor them."

Denam eyed the small undergarments, praying to Philaha that Ozma was not trying to do what he thought she was. "Why are you holding them out to me?"

Impatient, Ozma grasped Denam's hand and forced the small article into his hand, closing his fingers around it. His first thought was to drop or throw them, but he knew Ozma would be upset if he treated her clothing that way. He grasped the undergarments in front of him, refusing to look at them. Ozma's reply was absolutely ruthless and allowed for no questions. "You are going to wear them."

Denam clenched his teeth, not sure whether to feel baffled, angry, foolish, or timid. Ozma's tone did not deter him as it would another man, instead it only made him speak out against her more. "You've gone mad, Ozma! The isles have addled your brain."

Ozma's severe look suddenly turned bright and playful, signifying danger. Denam took a step back, but not before Ozma could catch his arms. She forced the undergarments from him, Denam released them with welcome ease, and leaned down, lifting his feet into the small holes. Denam tried to step away but almost stumbled as he realized Ozma's hand was around his waist, not letting him move. Ozma laughed and continued bringing the undergarments up. They were very tight around his thighs and groin and his scrotum and penis did not fit well into them. Ozma noticed this very obvious fact and leaned down, gently moving both the clothing and his genitals around until they packed into the small cloth. His hair was sticking out in patches, but Ozma didn't seem to care, instead she seemed to approve.

"As expected, they expand your more attractive features. I admit that I am hesitant in allowing others to see, but it is simply so nice that I want to show the world what is mine and mine alone."

Denam pursed his lips. This whole escapade was a power trip to amuse his wife? No, Ozma would not do such a thing with him. Denam corrected himself; these events were to show Catiua what Ozma had claimed and the younger woman had lost. Denam wished he could say Ozma's "goal" was wrong, but in sadness Denam did feel he had lost his sister in some ways. Stopping himself abruptly before he continued down the dark internal path, Denam watched Ozma rise. She walked back over to her trunk and started speaking.

"Catiua has taken one of those enchanted Holy whips we had on hand from the war. You remember them, certainly? The ones you disliked? You may use my whip instead."

Denam did remember those whips. They were powerful, but bright, flashy, and flamboyant. During battle, Denam had once seen their use from the corner of his eye, thinking the bright flash was a new attacker. His attention had temporarily turned, causing a minor wound. Denam would compare the distracting light enchantment to having a diamond on the hilt of a sword. It was attractive, but entirely impractical, especially during the brightest hours of the day. Denam was flattered that Ozma would allow him to use her favorite whip, but there was one problem: it was for women.

Denam spoke gently, not trying to offend his wife. "Your whip is. . .rather feminine, my love."

Ozma didn't look up from her chest, instead gently, lovingly lifting up her whip. She had just used it the previous night while chaperoning with Denam, but she held it longingly, stroking the soft thorns as if she hadn't seen the weapon in some time. "Is there a point to this rambling?"

"Would it not suit Catiua better?" Denam felt like pointing at himself, particularly his protruding sexual organs underneath Ozma's tight undergarments and yelling "I'm a man!" but remained silent. He looked foolish enough, he didn't need to humiliate himself further.

"I do not trust Catiua with my favorite weapon." Ozma continued stroking it as she walked over and handed the hilt to Denam. Denam examined it, getting used to the light weight and unfamiliar texture. Ozma circled Denam's waist with a thin belt with her holster and Denam very delicately placed it along his hip as if it were his favored sword. Ozma smiled. "I know you will wield and care for it just as you would care and treat me."

Despite his anger at the situation, Denam found himself meeting his wife's trusting eyes. The comment almost broke him, but Denam gently released the whip from its holster. He didn't hand it back. "I know you've whips created entirely for the purpose of pain and torture. A fine looking thing, if I remember, very supple. Perhaps you would have me use that?"

Ozma's hand enveloped Denam's and she reattached the whip to the belt. "I brought it back to Lodis with me. Certainly you would not expect me to need such a tool in Valeria?" Denam could see the truth in her words; Ozma and he had not come well armed because they were not expecting to feel threatened. Denam finally nodded, once again giving into his wife. Ozma took a step forward and hugged him gently, accidentally causing the sharp thorns on the whip to dig into the skin on his leg. Denam didn't resist, instead encircling his arms around her waist and running a hand up her back. Ozma let Denam do as he please, softly sighing as he ran his hands all over her; her dress prevented him from exploring the flesh on her lower back, but he was able to run his hands over her toned shoulders and through her hair. The familiar scent and feel of his wife gave him the confidence he desperately needed. He looked like a fool and he was going to act like a fool, but at least when he came back he would have a wonderful welcome. Finally dropping his hand, Denam took a step from Ozma, letting her know he was ready. She gently pushed him forward. Denam walked back out to the guest chambers; he was tempted to get a drink of water, knowing he would regret not eating or drinking with his wine later, but decided against it.

Keeping his head high, Denam bowed somewhat spitefully to his wife and walked from the room, choosing not to wear his boots. Denam ignored the shocked looks of the guards, holding his head high in feigned arrogance. As leader of the Resistance, acting strong had become easy, natural, even. There were times he had to put on a strong, prideful mask; Denam had not lost his ability to do so. Ozma often scolded him for accidentally reverting back to always showing an impassive facade and hiding his emotions. Though men openly gawked, Denam's confidence calmed them slightly, as Denam appeared to know what he was doing, even if internally Denam felt like blushing and running back into his room pretending this had never happened.

Some of the women stopped in the halls staring and pointing, talking and giggling. Denam walked right past, haughty expression causing the women to keep their distance. As he passed, he realized it was likely his confidence that attracted them and temporarily thought better of his actions, only to realize it would be even worse if he acted ashamed and embarrassed. Denam's conundrum continued all the way through the halls where Voltare, now captain of the guard, openly stood and gawked at his former commander. Denam gave the older man a cool look silencing his oncoming laughter and walked outside into the courtyard.

The sun was still high, but the weather was humid, the sticky moisture entering between his chest and the silk of his corset, making movements feel strange. Just as she said she would be, Catiua was waiting a short distance away. Around her were hundreds of citizens of all ages and backgrounds, Denam recognized a noble or two but feigned ignorance when they tried to gain his attentions. Catiua wore a similar outfit to Denam's, but her own corset was a light pink. Unlike Denam, she had boots on and her undergarments fit properly.

"Brother!" Catiua called from across the courtyard when she noticed his presence, and ran over to him, giving him a long, hard hug. Denam was not used to such long and affection public displays of affection from Catiua and stiffly returned the motion, upset that Catiua had turned the crowd's attention onto him. "I'm glad Ozma was able to get you out. Come, you must see this!"

Catiua released Denam from her hug and took his hand, pulling him along. Denam saw exactly where Catiua was leading him; on the wall, large ropes hung down from the ramparts, as well as being attached to the ground using large spikes. The ropes were holding a very annoyed, very naked Vyce. Unlike Denam, Vyce was not mortified at showing himself nude in public; but also unlike Denam, he was not dressed in a ridiculous getup that only a jester would wear. Even from the look on his features, Denam could tell this was a more "rational" Vyce than the one he had encountered the evening before. Catiua was looking up at him with a dark smirk on her features, not noting the same difference that Denam had, and Denam gently placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to get her attention. Before he could speak to try and stop her, she turned towards the crowd with a wide smile on her face, speaking her formal "Queen" tone. With all eyes now on she and Denam, Denam wanted to go take Vyce down, flee to the river, and drown both of them to stop pain of degradation.

"Greetings, fellow Valerians. Thank you for gathering on this fine day. I apologize for such short notice, but our problem cannot wait to be solved. As you see," Catiua motioned to Vyce "the man I'm choosing to marry. . ." the crowd gasped in shock and murmurs flooded the area. Catiua tried to speak, but her voice was drowned out. She cleared her throat casually, but it did not work. Denam was about to bellow for silence, as Catiua was getting impatient, but their gossip quickly died down and Catiua was able to continue. Denam was simply glad the attention was off of him. ". . .Vyce Bozeck has been acting inappropriately for the last few days. As is tradition in some countries" Catiua smiled at Denam, and Denam looked away. He should have told Catiua there was no such tradition in the first place. "We are going to beat my future-husband until he begs, cries, and is an inch from his death. His submission shows humility and that he will make a good king for his people."

The crowd looked at each other as Catiua finished her speech. Catiua had a self-satisfied look on her face and Vyce called down to Denam quietly. "What in Philaha's name is going on, Denam?" Denam could tell Vyce's arms had gone numb from having held him in the vertical position for so long. Denam was surprised, Ozma seemed to have "caught" her "prey" hours ago, for Vyce's skin was tinted red from prolonged exposure to the sun. Sweat dripping off his features; Denam was glad to see that he had been given water so that his condition could not be seen as completely inhumane. Vyce's features were struggling to maintain the calm facade he usually wore and he looked like he just wanted to go back to his room. Denam could empathize with him.

"I honestly do not understand it myself." Catiua gave Denam a scolding look, whispering quickly.

"You're not supposed to speak with our prisoner."

After a moment of delay, what Catiua had announced suddenly hit Vyce.

"_Married_?" His voice rose an octave or two in shock. "Since when are we to be married?"

Catiua frowned, taking out the light-enchanted whip Ozma had mentioned. She snapped it and hit Vyce across the chest before replying.

"Speak only when spoken to." She demanded loudly enough for the entire field to hear, but spoke quietly and quickly after. "Since _last night _when you proposed to me before Dame Ozma and Denam!" Catiua hit Vyce again, causing Denam to take a few steps back. Only the death of someone close to him could make Denam's day any worse. Denam tried to grasp Catiua's arm, but she pulled away, causing Denam to stumble back slightly. More murmurs echoed through the crowd at the small spat between siblings. Catiua snapped at the same time Vyce spoke up, both voices laced with anger and frustration.

"'Tis your turn next, Denam. Do not stop me!"

"I don't recall what happened last night, Catiua, don't you agree that it would be better to talk this out?"

Catiua hit Vyce against the legs, causing his sun-parched skin to split, the top of the large welts to open. Vyce made an angry hiss, more out of shock than pain, but looked all the more confused. Denam was conflicted; he wanted to help Vyce, but he also could not allow Catiua to be any more humiliated in front of her people than she already was. For her sake, Denam permitted the nonsense to continue, for if Catiua seemed confident in this "game," then the people would see it as strength and not question her. Vyce was his friend, but duty had torn them apart once, Denam was unsurprised that it had torn them apart again. The back of Denam's mind, a dark, vengeful part that Denam very rarely listened to - and was often silent until Ozma recently awakened it - told him that Vyce deserved the punishment for causing such pain to his sister.

The first time Denam's conscience had spoken to him such, he had been desperately shamed, feeling he had let down his father and his goals to be calm and accepting. In contrast, Ozma had smiled and spoke very similar, cruel thoughts on the matter, promoting Denam's own inner darkness; it had deepened Denam's conflict, for he reminded his wife that had he not been so forgiving the two of them would have killed each other. Ozma continued pushing, despite Denam's obvious wariness and whether Denam wanted it or not; he now had an unpleasantly possessive and violent voice that spoke up at the back of his mind when he was irrational. Denam was strong enough to never act upon it.

Catiua was staring at Denam. Denam, lost in his thoughts as he was, had been ignoring his sister and Vyce, but now his sister had an expecting look, her demeanor impatient. She eyed the whip on Denam's whip; understanding his sister's unspoken orders, Denam very gently released the whip, taking it in his hands.

"Forgive me, my friend." Denam murmured, voice somber, as he uncoiled the strange weapon. Catiua giggled in anticipation and Denam resisted the urge to give her a hard look. What he was to do was not for his pleasure.

Ozma's whip was incredibly effective. After one strike, Denam paused and examined the effects of the weapon; where Catiua's simpler whip had simply caused welts and cuts along the more parched skin, Ozma's actively ripped open flesh, its small thorns penetrating deeply. Denam knew that when used correctly it was very likely the whip could cause a very painful death if it hit the right veins. Ozma simply chose not to cause her opponents to bleed to death as such, instead opting for a more cruel, prolonged death in battle. His wife was a frightening creature, Denam concluded, and mentally noted locations where striking Vyce could cause him to bleed to death, making sure to avoid them. Unlike his sister, Denam struck cautiously, repeating his strikes in the same area to not only minimize damage over Vyce's body, but also to maximize pain. Denam focused on Vyce's upper chest and neck first, making sure that the whip struck at the hollow of Vyce's neck; the angle was difficult to hit, and Denam found himself missing, one time causing a long, large gash to appear down Vyce's face. When he hit correctly, Vyce grunted, breathing interrupted temporarily from the fast, hard pressure. Given Vyce's vulnerable position, Denam also struck at the region of his shoulder and underarm. The latter made particularly Vyce squirm and Denam filed away the weak point for future use.

Every time Denam hit, the crowd cried out behind him. Sometimes with soft "Oohs" or an "Ugh!" in disgust. Many of the lower class citizens were cheering loudly; Denam did not know what to make of that. Though hesitant at first, the sounds of the whip hitting soft flesh and Vyce's pained gasps and pitiful motions soon lowered his inhibitions. Though still cautious, Denam was horrified to find he was enjoying the feel of the whip digging into his friend's skin; Philaha knew Vyce certainly deserved it for what he had said about he and his wife. Realizing the change in his mentality, Denam stopped jarringly, taking the whip up, ignoring Vyce's blood as it covered his hands. He could not believe he had acted so. Catiua seemed to approve and put a hand on Denam's shoulder softly, before going up to Vyce herself.

Unlike Denam, Catiua was unrestrained. She did not bother focusing on certain points of Vyce's body, instead choosing to hit wherever she desired. She seemed fond of his thighs, arms, and chest, all of which had the most muscle. Had Denam been a teacher, he would have disapproved at the bad choices, but he supposed this was Catiua's way of causing her future groom less pain. Compared to Denam, Catiua put more force into her strikes, causing Vyce's muscles to contract painfully whenever struck. Sweat was dripping down his face, small droplets meeting the blood on his neck from Denam's own whip and sliding down his abdomen before slowing and drying, leaving long trails of dried blood. Between hits, Vyce gasped out.

"Catiua. . .You've gone. . .mad! Ugh!. . . This is not. . .how you treat. . .your friends!"

Catiua was breathing heavily from exertion, but continued striking. She seemed to like making patterns from the large lumps and welts, sometimes making them parallel, other times even making designs; Denam noticed that on his right thigh, Vyce had an odd "flower," with the center where the "petals" met having a large, bloody wound opened from repeated pressure on already sun-weakened skin. Denam found it particularly amusing that the blood spread and dripped down his leg into what looked like sepals and a stem. While Denam did not quite understand the point of Catiua's "art," it was not his place to complain if his sister was enjoying herself.

Neither Catiua nor Denam offered any answer to Vyce's pleas, but Denam could see that Vyce's mood was darkening quickly. "Catiua, stop." Denam murmured, his sister listening curiously. Denam walked over to Vyce, his friend's head down. Denam lifted his head gently with a hand, worried look on his features. Catiua made a disapproving sound at Denam's motion and the crowd was speaking in the distance, wondering what was going on. Ignoring his audience, Denam was shocked to see the expression on Vyce's face to be completely different than the one he had worn earlier; there was a dark sneer, with pained, almost maniacal eyes. Denam withdrew in shock, causing Vyce to laugh darkly. Catiua had been right; there were two Vyces! This "darker" Vyce was the one that Catiua and he were to punish, not the softer, calmer Vyce that had already been thoroughly humiliated. Denam frowned, speaking to his sister. "He's mad, sister. Well and truly mad. We must rid him of this Ogre!"

Vyce spoke, tone harsher than before. "It's not something you would understand, Denam." Denam hesitated at striking his friend, letting him finish his piece before continuing the punishment Catiua had started. "No, not someone with as much charisma as you. Even dressed like a fool, the people are still in awe of you. Blind sheep, all of them, but you're just as bad." He spat onto the ground in front of Denam's feet. "And when you finally have an original thought in your head, you turn traitor, selling us out to the very people who tried to enslave us!"

Vyce's voice had risen to the level where those nearby could hear, causing a wave of whispers to begin anew. Denam knew this bode badly for him and his already dangerous relationship with the Valerian nobility. He would not leave his country an exile based off of rumors and spite simply because of the woman he chose to love! "That is quite enough, Vyce." Denam's foul mood rose to the surface, years of emotions that Denam once buried forcing themselves forward, demanding to be heard. All of Denam's anger, frustration, sadness, and humiliation seeped out in a dangerous aura directed entirely at his friend.

Denam snapped his wife's whip, hitting it across Vyce's face, not caring if hit caused any permanent damage. Vyce had enough foresight to close his eyes and mouth, but had Denam hit them, the thorns would have caused blindness. Denam considered Vyce lucky that his strike hit him across the nose and did not puncture the cartilage and his nasal septum. Denam was tolerant of insults, but Vyce was going to start another war by promoting negative feelings in the people. If word of Vyce's slander spread, and the people took it seriously, there could be hostility towards the Lodissians who chose to live in Valeria peacefully.

Denam struck at Vyce, his control lacking compared to his earlier actions. It was not only the thorns from Ozma's whip causing Vyce's flesh to tear, Denam's strikes themselves were powerful, causing skin to burst at the top of welts, especially where Catiua had previously struck the other man. Denam did not hesitate in hitting Vyce in dangerous areas, the groins caused him to grunt particularly well. After a few hits there, Catiua had whispered roughly, causing Denam to be shocked out of his reverie.

"Do not damage him too badly, brother. I _do _need offspring eventually."

Nodding, but not quite calming himself, Denam moved back up, over Vyce's arms. Hitting with force in an upward direction was difficult, but Denam found it easy to tear the thin skin underneath Vyce's arms. The muscle was tender there, pained from being held in the same position for hours, and the powerful strikes of the whip caused them to tear painfully. Vyce's cries echoed through the courtyard; unlike before, he was not as calm and controlled. This "new" Vyce was willing to vocally share his pain, or perhaps even exaggerating it to give Denam a bad name amongst the people.

Denam's rationality burst, emotions flaring through, but he calmly smile to his sister behind him surprised that he was able to keep his impassive mask on. Catiua gave Denam an odd look, one Denam didn't quite understand. Denam tried again, Catiua seemed confused.

"We must punish him at the same time, sister. One of us alone does nothing." Were Denam's playful words; he was surprised at his own tone. Catiua seemed distressed as well, but finally nodded, accepting Denam's judgment. "Be careful not to strike where I do."

Denam led his sister, making sure to hit sharply in one direction, up or down, left or right, until Catiua understood his patterns. Working together Vyce was unable to recover between hits, and his loud screams turned to gasps and coughs. At one point, Vyce had started coughing up blood and Denam had worried they had overdone it and they would have to stop prematurely, only to find that it was simply Vyce having bit his tongue. In a twisted motion, Catiua had motioned for Denam to halt and she had approached Vyce, gently wiping the blood from the side of his mouth. It was a surprisingly intimate motion and Denam saw Vyce's eyes lighten, if only for a second, before angering again, snapping some nonsense about how Catiua was mocking him. Denam didn't care enough about his words to listen to them. Catiua was the one who began the punishment again, and Denam gently followed her lead. It was not nearly as satisfying for him to have to follow Catiua's more cautious beating, but even taking his emotions out on Vyce lightly was satisfying. Vyce babbled between his cries, but Denam paid them no heed; he had heard them all before, about how much Vyce hated him, about how miserable his life was, and whatever other absurd taunts he thought would upset Denam. Denam was already beyond his breaking point, Vyce's drivel had no effect on him.

After one particularly long scream, Catiua stopped Denam. Denam was breathing heavily, his extended catharsis exhausting him. Denam looked onto the badly beaten, bloody, and torn apart form of Vyce hanging from the wall. He had gone silent, unconscious from the pain. Catiua turned towards her small audience, which to Denam's surprise had at least doubled in size since he arrived, and smiled at the all, speaking in her loud, confident voice.

"It is done. On this day, I hereby officially announce my engagement to Vyce Bozeck, humbled in front of his people and his wife, as a King should be."

* * *

><p>The sea was calm, its gentleness hiding a swirling fierceness that only showed itself during storms. It reminded Denam of himself; he was beginning to understand the late Azelstan's love for the sea. The ship, one <em>Sea Maiden's Sigh - <em>Denam didn't understand the name - was a fine boat, having weathered the previous night's storm with no difficulties. Denam had been permitted onto the deck now that the sea was calm, so long as he did not disturb the sailors. Denam was not foolish enough to stand by the edge of the boat as so many reckless young men did in the stories did, instead keeping his distance, enjoying the feel of the wind as it caressed his skin and tangled his hair.

"You're still troubled." Ozma spoke from beside him, her voice soft but firm. It was not a question.

"Yes." Was Denam's quiet admission. He turned his eyes down, shamed. Ozma grasped Denam, hugging him from the front, forcing his gaze onto her. She leaned her head on his chest, waiting for Denam to elaborate. Denam did not feel it right to worry others with his burdens, but Ozma had been so firm. When he had returned from Catiua's engagement announcement, Denam hadn't said anything, feeling only an emptiness, as if his emotions had flooded out onto Vyce through Ozma's whip. He had thrown the ridiculous corset and undergarments onto the bed, not caring if Ozma would be angered, but also very gently put Ozma's bloodied whip onto a towel, before he had fled into the bath, remaining in there until he finally felt clean; it was well into the evening when he had finally got out, skin soft and wrinkled from prolonged exposure to the water.

"My morals. . .everything I stood for, gone. I still cannot believe my own actions. I lost control."

Ozma's tone was light, playful, but also demanding. "You've been moping for a half Scale now, Denam. For Scales, since before we even married, you've felt nothing but stress and worry. You work to please others, but never think to please yourself."

"I know you speak the truth." Denam sighed.

"Of course I do, but you take no heed of my words!" Ozma's pitch raised in frustration. Denam was surprised she did not start shaking him. "You hold everything in; tell me what pains you, my love. Do not wait until it comes to the surface and bursts again." Denam nodded, sighing. "Do you remember what happened after Hobyrim was killed?"

Denam was surprised Ozma was bringing the subject up. He nodded cautiously, not sure where his wife was leading him. "I was sad, broken, upset. You listened to me, helped me put the shattered pieces back in order. Just as I was empty, so you are now. 'Twill be a fresh start for us. I-" Ozma paused, causing some surprise in Denam. Ozma was not one to hesitate or stammer; his attention was completely on his wife now, for it meant what she was trying to say was difficult for her. She was speaking from her soul. "I do not like it when you hide yourself from me, Denam. I love you, faults and all. I want to know of your pain, your fears, your suffering. I want to share them with you, as you share mine." Denam was shocked to see Ozma's eyes slightly watering. She would not cry, for she was not sad, but she spoke with such passion and depth that she could not keep her emotions from bubbling to the surface.

Ozma had not finished, but Denam understood her unspoken words: _When you hurt, I hurt too_. In trying to hide his pain from others, to stop their worry, he had only caused more pain and suffering. Denam felt like a fool. He nuzzled his head into his wife's hair in silent apology. Ozma knew how difficult it was to rely on others, it was time for Denam to learn his lesson as well. It would take time to stop hiding his emotions from his wife, but they had plenty of it. Their future was just beginning.

"Then why send me out in humiliation?"

Ozma seemed amused. "'Twas Catiua's idea to dress you so." Denam felt his anger rise again, but Ozma gave him a scolding look. "I wanted you to go out and release your emotions, even if doing so hurt you and your friend."

"By telling Catiua there is a tradition that requires the beating of future husbands?"

"I said it in jest, yet your sister took me seriously. I simply expected her to push your friend around a bit, show him who is dominant. Your sister twists words in her head in ways even I do not understand." Denam's grasp tightened on his wife, letting her know that Denam knew she was omitting something. Ozma sighed and continued, amused. "Though perhaps it is my fault for mentioning a public beating would be good to make him beg for forgiveness."

Denam had no words. He felt anger at both his wife and Catiua for making a fool out of him, but shortly after it burned away into a soft calmness. It did not matter now, Denam silently forgave the duo. They believed they were doing what was right, even if Ozma's lacked kindness in a traditional sense. The boat rocked gently in the breeze, causing Ozma's hair to dance in the wind. Denam ran his fingers through it gently and watched as the strands seemingly moved with a mind of their own.

"I never thought you would be one for interrogation, my love." Ozma teasingly poked at Denam's stomach, without lifting her head from his chest. Denam flinched at the touch.

"I do not like the direction you lead this conversation."

"'Twould be a shame to lose such talent! I've some acquaintances who would be willing to hire one with as much experience as you."

"Absolutely not."

"Then what do you want to do? Mercenary work? Blacksmithing?" Ozma seemed amused. "No, those won't do for a proper man like yourself. Priesthood? A teacher, perhaps?"

Ozma's question was valid. Denam had not put much thought into his future plans beyond "traveling" and "spending time with his wife." Though Ozma's family was well off enough to take care of Denam and Ozma should both choose not to work, Denam was not comfortable with taking in their good will. He would need to find a job to support them. Denam's skills were primarily in battle, he did not know how he would fare as a normal man, living a normal life. While Denam hated war, working the same schedule each day for years simply seemed so monotonous. Denam avoided the subject, turning it back onto his wife.

"And you?"

"I have never hidden my intentions. I intend to free my country from the disease that ails it. I love Lodis too much to let it suffer at the hands of such broken rule." Ozma was looking at Denam now, her eyes bright and full of life; she was so passionate about her country that Denam could not help but feel her excitement. Denam sighed; the women in his life seemed intent on making him struggle for even the smallest foothold of control in every situation. Or perhaps it was Denam himself who expected so much of himself, always trying to be in control of situations that he had no hold over.

"You could be harmed."

"You will protect me." The words were simple. For any other woman, Denam would have expected them to be normal. But from Ozma, they were a sign of not only deep trust, but mutual submission. She was allowing Denam control over her future, just as she had control over his.

"Can we at least wait a time? I've had my fill of civil war for at least three lifetimes."

* * *

><p>Catiua's day was painfully normal. Vyce impatiently stalked around the room behind her, purposely mumbling in annoyance letting Catiua know of his boredom. She ignored her husband; Vyce was a strong king, stubborn, dangerous, perhaps, but firm and willing to do what was right. Unfortunately, he also shared that same lack of delicacy with both his wife and their romance. He was often openly spiteful towards the nobles, especially those whose gaze spent a moment too long exploring Catiua's body.<p>

"Vyce, for the love of Philaha, calm yourself." Vyce turned to his wife, giving her a deep, sarcastic bow. Instead of stopping, Vyce walked in front of the large meeting table, picking up his glass of water as he walked past. Relocated near the door, Vyce paced back and forth inside Catiua's line of sight, purposely intending to annoy her. Catiua would have smiled at Vyce's determination at any other point, but she had parchment to read before they could have their anniversary dinner. Vyce had promised something special and, while Catiua desperately wanted to know what it was, she also needed to finish her work.

Just as her concentration seemed to be returning, a loud knock on the door sounded. Vyce stopped his pacing and Catiua looked up. They shared a confused look before Vyce opened it. Outside was a scared looking servant.

"Enter." Catiua called. The servant bowed and started shaking as Vyce stood behind him, presence dangerous.

"Your Majesty." The servant twittered. "Someone is here to see you."

"I am not taking any guests this evening. Who is it?"

"My Queen, the woman came with a large entourage. She speaks and dresses well, as if she is to be obeyed at all costs." Catiua frowned. Someone was ordering her servants around? Her own nobles would never be so bold. Catiua motioned for the man to continue. "She says she is acquainted with your husband."

Vyce took a step back, a deep look of worry and distress on his already dark features. Before Catiua could reply, Vyce interrupted, his voice laced in venom. "Who is this woman?"

"She is Lodissian, my Lord. She claims the name 'Lady Noumous.'"

The only sound that echoed through the room was the shatter of Vyce's glass of water as it hit the floor.

* * *

><p>Fun fact: About a week post-story, corsets for men suddenly gained popularity in Valeria.<p>

Does our "dark" Vyce become a good ruler? Only time will tell. Without Denam, he will have the chance to prove his potential as he always dreamed to, without being under his friend's shadow.

Does Denam ever deeply bond with his sister again? Will they ever be as they were before the war? No. They've both changed. Denam and Catiua will always love and respect each other, but they are different people. It is time for Vyce to support his wife in Denam's place, just as Denam supports Ozma. Catiua can certainly expect visits from her brother, though!

Did you notice Denam still thinks of races like Walister and Bakram, even though Catiua declared that they're all Valerians? Vyce mentions them as well. Change does not come easily for some.


	13. Atonement: VyceCistina

This is a sequel to a previous story in this series, called _Loyalty_. It features ChaosVyce and Cistina.

I was originally planning something completely different for this, but decided against it for it would have been far too long for a one-shot. This would have been the introduction. As I do not want to scrap what might be a somewhat entertaining story to some, I am posting it here despite my changed plans.

_**Atonement**_

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><p>Balmamusa was a dirty city, much like its own Galgastani inhabitants. The roads were paved, but the stones were uneven, often moss covered. Due to its location near the sea, Balmamusa experienced persistent fog and rainfall, causing mold and an incessant moisture to set into each of the shacks the residents called "houses." The houses in the slums on the border of town, if they could be called such, were built from wood and mud, the planks uneven and not meeting each other, roofs leaking. In such buildings, many generations often lived together; parents, grandparents, aunts, cousins, all slept in what was an often a one-room residence where the doors could barely close and their walls falling down at the lightest of storms. Many families also shared their domains with swine, cows, and goats, as they were the most valuable possession they owned. Vyce did not know if this was the result of the war or simply the Galgastani's own twisted culture, but it made him remarkably uncomfortable to see such weakness considered acceptable. He would have rather lived on the streets.<p>

Though Vyce could not say he had visited Balmamusa often, or at all before the war, every time he came the sky was dark, clouds circling overhead ready to release their subtle anger. It was well suited for one such as himself. At each corner, Vyce jumped at invisible shadows haunting the field of his vision. When alone, Vyce would often flip a well-used dagger into his hand, reacting at some unseen, shadowy presence. At times he was surprised by a rat or a bird, other times a lone homeless wanderer, but much of his dread came from the shadows of memories in his own mind. The shadows took on human forms, but they were faceless things - no, that was wrong. The shadows in Vyce's mind had faces, but they were warped, twisted in agony, often even changing before his eyes from an old woman's dried and wrinkled skin to a girl's lush youth. Always the eyes held a blank dullness, the look a human takes upon the moment of their death. The most variable factor about the shades was their expression. Most of the shades had a look of shock, pain, or even with their mouths open, screaming, some even held peace. Humans expressed pain in so many ways. For all the pain he had caused, Vyce knew the looks well enough that, were he strong with words, he would write a book about the many faces of suffering.

If Vyce's eyes deceived him and set him on edge, his dreams spoke of a harsh, brutal truth that drove him to madness. Wails were Vyce's lullabies, screeches his call to awaken. When he ate breakfast each morning, soft breads and warm milk, his mind instead showed him the skinned flesh of his foes, milk the pus from their infected wounds. At lunch, his meals turned to raw muscle, sometimes with fat; his juice blood of innocents. Vyce's dinner consisted of views of displaced eyeballs, fleshy, beating hearts, even livers worn from over-consumption of ale, and intestines that had fallen out as he eviscerated the children with his daggers - his drink during the evening was more subdued, a simple glass of saliva.

There were times Vyce felt tears drip down his face, unable to hold back his shame and horror. He was no better than the men he had condemned, his own actions sadistic and brutal, explosive and fierce, shattering families as his own had been shattered. He hated himself for his weakness; he hated himself for his irrationality even more, for had he been able to control either he would not be in such a pitiful state. Vyce chose to go to Balmamusa in attempt to come to terms with what he had done, hoping to at least begin his atonement, but his plans were devastated and he had receded into the depths of his mind, curled up on his sleep mat refusing to leave the small house in the center of town that he and Cistina had bought for themselves.

With Vyce struggling to retain his sanity, Cistina offered to work for them both, using her skill in lance, blade, and magic to be an effective mercenary and guard. When she was in the house, the intestines on Vyce's plate would turn back to long strands of noodles, the liver into soft meat patties. Her continued presence was the light in his dark world, clearing away the fog and madness. It was only after she left for prolonged periods, such as on a week-long escort, that Vyce slipped back into old habits, jumping at shadows, worrying that every man who walked by their door held a knife behind his back, wanting to kill him. Vyce's actions had quickly scared their neighbors away when they had come to greet them and give he and his "wife" well wishes of welcome. Cistina had been able to patch their relations whenever she was home by offering them warm discussions and reassuring words - or, at least, as much as she could considering her very obvious Bakram descent.

After a time, he felt nothing but spite for Cistina. She was able to calm the hearts and minds of their neighbors with little more than a smile, despite their racial hatred. He knew she still endured insults and racial slander, but many found her pleasant and likable. Cistina's relative popularity brought on feelings of inferiority, knowing he would never be similar, his own mind too twisted.

One night over dinner, he had confronted Cistina about her amicable behavior, angry that she was so nice, so kind, so lovable, so _perfect_. Cistina had simply frowned for a time before putting her clay bowl down and moved over the table, causing Vyce to withdraw and spill his soup all over himself. After a gasp in pain, Vyce had tried to run away, the scalding liquid burning into his skin, turning his stomach and legs a bright red, immediately sensitive to touch. Cistina grasped him, hands around his neck, leaning into him, forcing him to the ground and out of his stool. Vyce remembered his first thought had been that he was amazed at her foresight; she had avoided putting her weight onto the burnt areas as she embraced him. After a moment, Cistina had quickly removed Vyce's shirt, roughly pulling it over his shoulders and lowered his wet trousers. Having given Vyce a look that told him to stay in place, Cistina walked over to her cup of water. The water was not cool, but Cistina gently took her own dress off, chest covered only by her breast bindings and legs by her undergarments and boots, and had dipped the cloth into the water, rubbing it over Vyce's stomach and legs, lovingly trying to clean him and soothe his pain. The water was too warm to stop the burning sensation, but Vyce found his spite for Cistina gone, feeling only empty and remorseful that he would even think such words about her.

The remorse did not last. Each time Cistina returned to their small home he would push, repeating cruel words, sometimes even beating her, only to find himself thrown to the floor under her spear or by her wind magic. Even at his harsher reactions she would simply scold him. Nothing Vyce would do caused Cistina to anger. She would often pout or give him a stern look, but never would she show him anything but acceptance and tolerance, refusing to even give into Vyce's self-pity. Even Denam had reacted with some anger to Vyce's cold words in Almorica, yet no matter what he said and did, Cistina would only lie next to him in their bed, putting her arms around his waist as she slept, head nuzzled into his back. Often, when Vyce awoke in the middle of the night, he found that his body had turned itself towards Cistina, arm draped over her and sometimes even grasping her protectively. The nightmares never came when Cistina held him.

After weeks of prodding, Vyce had finally found Cistina's weak spot, the only words that would cause her to become enraged. He would mock her incompetence in the Front - rejected by her own family, her weakness for being unable to unite her people and bring peace, but most of all he mocked her for betraying her dreams. After days of abuse, she finally snapped and was unable to take the derision any longer. No longer did she leave the house other than for work she did normally, her gaze never meeting Vyce's, and her manner pained. She still brought him food and water, but Cistina refused to sleep beside him or even eat when he did. She would touch him, but not the soft, calming strokes, but quick, brusque touches. She sat across from him at dinner and though she would tell him of her work day or of her thoughts. Though their discussions over supper usually annoyed him, Vyce found himself missing Cistina's stories of smiling children, beautiful plains, and of adventures.

For a week they went on as such. Vyce found himself waking hourly at night, often screaming from visions of demons ripping apart his body, feeding on his flesh. Others tried to possess him, speaking tempting words of vengeance and hatred, promising nothing but satisfaction if only he gave in. They were the hardest to resist and when Vyce woke from such, he was always slick with sweat, hands clammy and cold, eyes panicked, searching the shadows for invisible creatures that looked to absorb him. At times, when sweat slid down his back, Vyce thought he felt a finger running along with it. Vyce often slept with no blanket, even in the chill of the night.

Almost a week and a half later, Vyce could no longer resist. He wanted to rush over to Cistina, who slept on the cool floor - letting Vyce have the bed, and lay on top of her, forcing her into submission so that she would make the demons and spirits go away. He felt like shaking her, damning her for her witchcraft; she had put a curse on him, for his cruel actions against her! At that, Vyce jarringly stopped, realizing his lunacy and how mad he sounded, even to himself. His demons were of his own making, yet he blamed Cistina for them; the dreams were memories, the hands that fell down his back with sweat were the hands of a woman falling to her death after Vyce cut her through the middle. The "demons" that spoke to him were his own dark emotions that begged him to kill Denam and save his people, to help them rise up beyond all of their oppressors. Cistina had not caused any of the dreams - no, Vyce amended, Cistina had not caused any of Vyce's problems at all. Instead she had attempted to alleviate them in the only way she knew how.

Vyce got up from his bed, gently lifting his blanket and putting it over the huddled, shivering, sleeping form of his companion, and sat down on a stool at their small, wooden table. He put his head in his hands in silent shame, running his hands through greasy, unwashed hair, the dark strands sticking together. His beard, too, was unshaven, just as greasy as the hair on his head, the thick hairs clinging to his skin feeling harsh in his hands. Some pimples had formed on his face, but Vyce ignored their light pressure against his skin. Time felt as if it were still but sped up at the same time. For how long he sat in that position Vyce did not know, for his time was spent musing on his mistakes. It felt as if it was all he did of late.

Vyce was a simple man, or so he liked to tell himself. He had simple goals; a more powerful, free Walister people, a beautiful, loving wife who accepted him for who he was and would look for him for protection, and maybe a few children. To obtain his goals, Vyce was willing to do anything. Vyce would never regret the massacre; it was necessary for the advancement of his people. What Vyce regretted was his violent, cruel murder of the citizens, treating it as a sadistic game, prolonging their pain when he could have taken their lives in an instant. Vyce regretted forcing the gap between himself and his two old friends, however, he would never forgive Denam for his optimistic blindness. Denam, so idealistic and naive, saw only the truth he wished to see, forcing his view of people onto others. He did not understand the pain he caused when doing so; unintentionally, Denam, too, had driven the hatred deeper into Vyce, by choosing himself over the people they had both sworn to protect and refusing to acknowledge his own mistakes.

It was impossible to change the past. Looking back on his own actions left a bitter taste in his mouth; no matter how easily he understood their necessity, it was his loss of control that tormented him - almost more than his lack of success at causing true change. For all he had sacrificed to unite their people and gain revenge, Vyce had failed horribly at the peak of his plans, captured by the only person he loathed as much as Denam. Instead, to his shame, he had been a coward, terrified that he would lose his life. Vyce still remembered the moment as vividly as he remembered watching the people of Golyat massacred before his eyes by the Dark Knights Loslorien. He remembered being incapacitated with fear and anger, anger slowly seeping away at the realization that he had no chance for success, desperation filling its place. The room had been cool, shaded and of average temperature, a small breeze dancing in through the open window. Despite the temperature his whole body had been covered in sweat from overactive nerves and hormones as well as, though he was shamed to admit, lack of sleep from worry the previous night. In what he would consider the weakest moment of his life, he had fallen to his knees, put his head to the floor, and begged for mercy, his voice cracking in panic as he looked up at those who had held him in their grasp.

The look in the red-haired man's eyes had horrified Vyce. It was not because he took such obvious glee in causing Vyce pain and humiliation, but because Vyce knew eyes had taken on the same maniacal appearance in the past. Before that point, he had never wondered how many of his opponents had viewed him, but the Templar had showed him. It was terrifying and, though belatedly, he understood why the untrained townspeople had begged and cried when he gave them his attention. Vyce had barely paid attention to the woman, who had stood protectively by Lanselot Tartaros, but her own look was a cool apathy, body language uncaring of Vyce's plight; she instead had an agitated look, as if there was a bug in the room and the sound it made annoyed her. Tartaros had held a different look to him all together, from what Vyce could tell, Tartaros had an amused annoyance to him, his countenance more of pity than anger. Vyce had felt like a helpless child, body quivering in terror unable to control itself as the predator stared at him, unmoving but also unrelenting. His garbled words had come out as meaningless, desperately seeking time for his overworked mind to find a way out of the predicament. To his surprise, his pitiful actions had saved him, and Tartaros allowed him to flee.

Then he had met Cistina. Vyce looked over at the sleeping woman, her hair tangled and falling over her face, an emotionless expression on her soft, sleeping features. She looked almost like a child, but appearances were deceiving, as Vyce had painfully learned after he had fled Tartaros, still shaking and emotions erratic. Cistina had been his light; she gave him what he desperately sought at the time he most crucially needed it. She gave him acceptance, tolerance, and most of all, showed him warmth and unconditional kindness. Vyce looked away and back down at the table, sight blurred in anger and shame. After what she had done and had been willing to sacrifice, Vyce had done everything he can to hurt her in a short sighted tantrum for no reason other than she was a better person than he. It was remarkably obvious, in hindsight: of course she was a better person than he, for Cistina did not abuse those she felt envy and spite towards. To Vyce's relief, from a quick glance up, Vyce could tell Cistina was no longer shaking with his blanket over her. In her sleep, she grasped the rough material; Vyce found himself tilting his head to the side, feeling overwhelmed by a warm feeling of _something _he couldn't describe. Realizing what he was doing, Vyce roughly turned away and almost fell off the stool, balance disoriented. As his equilibrium returned, Vyce roughly slammed his fist onto the table in anger, the motion causing the table to jump and the loud sound to echo through their lone room. Vyce jumped at his own action, instinctively looking to the shadows that surrounded him before realizing his foolishness. He did not deserve what it was Cistina gave him, not yet. He had too much left undone; perhaps once his goals were realized and his people safe could he finally say that he was willing to accept even a modicum of happiness and relief.

Vyce jumped immediately out of his chair when he felt something on his shoulder, falling into an instinctive defensive stance, fists clenched and adrenaline racing from surprise. His chest heaved up and down and, in his shock, Vyce bit his tongue hard enough to make him cringe. A quick look at his attacker showed it be Cistina, apparently awakened by his hand slam. Her eyes were a bit groggy and her manner cautious and at Vyce's reaction she had quickly withdrawn her hand, holding it alongside her other hand on her chest. She refused to meet Vyce's gaze, instead looking down to the floor, hair falling in front of her face. Vyce found himself trying to see between the thick strands, only to look into shadows. His mind flashed to memories of the spectres that constantly haunted him, imagining that her face would be deformed or even completely gone, replaced with nothing but flat, pale flesh, when Cistina chose to look up. Vyce took a step back unintentionally, hoping this was not a dream and that Cistina's face remained whole.

". . .Vyce." Cistina's voice seemed normal enough, but he half expected it to mutate into a rasp or even a growl. Vyce did not answer, instead looking to the dirty floor in shame. He did not have the right to face Cistina. Cistina took a step closer and Vyce had to stop himself from taking another step back. Cistina's presence was warm and gentle, not the annoyed, distant presence it had been the night before. Cistina took Vyce's chin in her hand and lifted it up. Vyce forced his eyes closed, unable to look at her. Cistina did not move, instead only coming closer, her silence signifying she was waiting for Vyce, accepting the unworded apology when he had placed the blanket over her. Vyce finally opened his eyes to Cistina's face. Her hair was falling over her eyes, but Vyce immediately pushed her away at the sight. It was not horrifying like the dead spectres, instead her face was covered in dark blue and black bruises. Some had turned a light brown or even red. One of her eyes was forced closed in pain, her nose bleeding, blood dripping down past her lips. Her lip had a large gouge in it, the inner parts of her lip exposed to

Vyce stumbled backward again, closing his eyes and looking down, shaking his head. His actions haunted him; though he had not killed Cistina, as he had the others, he had violently beaten her. She had never begged, she had never looked at him with fear. It was the same, flat, tolerant, almost sad look that she always gave him when he yelled obscenities at her. Her face, married with bruises, even of his imagination's own making, was too much to bear. His guilt was eating him alive.

"Vyce, what's wrong? I don't understand." Her voice was soft, worried and she approached again. Vyce held his arms in front of him, trying to stop Cistina, but instead she took his hands. He tried to force her grasp off, but Vyce was out of practice, his muscles having atrophied slightly from being passive for over a Scale. Cistina had continued fighting and was strong, able to hold Vyce's hands and pulling him toward her. Vyce stumbled at the yank and ended up falling into Cistina. He was still heavier and larger than her and at he fell into Cistina's soft skin, he felt his Cistina's balance thrown as well and, after a quick screech from Cistina he felt nothing but air between him and the ground. Vyce clenched his jaw instinctively as he fell, hands still in Cistina's. He landed hard on Cistina, causing her to grunt and Vyce to gasp and breathe air in instinctively. Cistina started coughing and Vyce immediately rolled over onto the ground beside her as she grasped at her stomach.

Vyce scuttled away, putting distance between himself and Cistina as the woman recovered from the pain of Vyce falling on top of her. As Cistina finally calmed herself, the rough sound of her coughs subsiding, Vyce ventured a look up, noting Cistina's face had returned to normal, its bruises and cuts having faded. Her upper lip was still scabbed slightly, but a wound that deep would take time to heal. Vyce's heart rate slowed for the first time after the shock of Cistina breaking his musings and seeing her mutated, bruised face. Though his breathing was still accelerated, he calmed, choosing to hug his knees to his chest defensively, clutching at the fabric of his worn, dirty trousers. As he sat on the floor, in an instant, Vyce realized how far he had fallen. He was ungroomed with a disgustingly greasy hair and face, he likely smelled, and his clothes, even if only for sleeping in, had holes. His trousers were tattered at the end, almost worthy of a scarecrow. He was more disgusting than the animals who stayed in the houses with their human masters out in the slums. Vyce felt remarkably hypocritical for condemning those families, for he was causing Cistina to live in similar conditions.

Cistina crawled over to Vyce on her hands and knees. He noticed she was favoring her right hand and put very little weight on her left. It seemed her left hand had been smashed under his weight when he had fallen on top of her. The shadows still covered them both and, though he could not see it, he knew Cistina to be cleaner than he, her skin likely pale in contrast to his own filthiness. For a time she stared at Vyce, before sitting, cross-legged, in front of him. Vyce refused to look at her, instead staring at the wall. He moved his lips, but no sound came out. His throat released an accidental sound of frustration.

"I'm sorry." He whispered as quietly as his voice would allow him to. He could not believe his own words, and he doubted he would ever say them again. Vyce expected Cistina to look confused and possibly ask him to repeat what he said, but instead she simply stared, a small smile gracing her lips. Perhaps she had heard him, perhaps she had not, but her entire demeanor lightened. Cistina was a patient listener, always noting his subtle cues; Vyce knew that Cistina had likely heard him and, if not, she understood what he was trying to say simply from his body language. Cistina licked her lips and looked up in attempt to meet Vyce's eyes. He refused to meet them, humiliation flooding his body and color spreading to his cheeks at his admission of guilt. Though he did not like to admit it, beating Cistina had been a horrible mistake made from built up rage and anger that should not have been targeted in her direction at all. If Vyce made the attempt, he would be popular with their neighbors as well, but he didn't, instead alienating them with his brash demeanor, cool words, and filthy lifestyle. He had no right to punish Cistina for what he had brought upon himself.

Cistina very gently touched Vyce's face, one hand on each cheek, seemingly ignoring the oil and sharp edges of his beard. Her face close to his, she let him see her smile. In a surprisingly demanding motion, Cistina pulled Vyce down onto her lap, forcing his head to rest in the area between her legs, head facing upwards, looking at her. Vyce struggled for a moment before finally giving in, letting Cistina have her way. He twisted around, trying to find a comfortable spot on the "pillow" that was her crossed legs. Cistina's hair fell down onto his face, and Vyce quickly untangled himself from the mess, tring to toss it up over Cistina's head, only to fail and have it fall back over them both. He finally found a medium by moving her hair down over his chin and beside his face so it cascaded down around his head like a waterfall. Cistina released a small giggle, the sound sending mixed feelings of anger, annoyance, warmth, and nostalgia through him. Cistina's warmth was relaxing after days alone on his bed without it; Vyce almost felt he did not deserve to feel it once again. After her giggle, Cistina's smile disappated, almost as quickly as the sound on the night air. A small frown crossed her face causing her features to wrinkle. Vyce could not see Cistina's eyes from her position leaving over him, but he knew they were likely sad.

"You never tell me anything." Cistina's words echoed through the empty room, her tone wispy, and her words almost dragging through the air. "I'm so worried about you, Vyce. Instead of telling me your problems, you hold it in, suffering by yourself. Often you wake at night, screaming loudly enough that our neighbors are roused." Cistina finally smiled at that and Vyce didn't understand why. Her face went stern again almost immediately. "I feel like instead of solving the issues, you hide them behind a mask of strength, where they only build up. You need not tell me what you see in your dreams, but I want to be the person you rely on, Vyce. Stop hiding from me! Without opening up, even to yourself, you will never resolve what truly ails you."

Vyce wanted to get up and force Cistina away, outraged that she would make such assumptions about him. He would deal with his problems in his own way, without her meddling. Her intervention only made matters worse; with her own perfect family and noble background she would _never _understand Vyce's pain. She was always loved, always so kind, always the one attention would shine on. She even sat there, looking down on Vyce, demanding his attention and his own thoughts as if she owned them! No, Vyce would never rely on Cistina.

Again, Vyce stopped his mind in its ridiculous, childish ramblings. His emotions were out of control, erratic, and he was not thinking clearly. It was true, Cistina was a good person, but as Vyce had only earlier decided it was because she had _earned _the title, not because she expected it to be given to her simply by acting kind to everyone. Vyce had once expected to sit back, support, and show his silent affection for Catiua, but where had it led him? Nowhere - she had never acknowledged him beyond anything more than her brother's friend. Even Vyce's decision to massacre innocents at Balmamusa had not been his own, instead he had reacted to Denam's own betrayal. Denam had refused to serve their people when they needed it most, so Vyce had chosen to in his stead. Vyce felt only distaste for those Walister slaving away in Galgastan territory, as if they were pets. Even now, he did not regret freeing them from the bonds the Galgastani had placed on them; when they had died, the people of Balmamusa no longer thought on their own, only at the whim of their masters.

Vyce knew change would not be easy. His mind continually wandered down the negative road towards condemning others for their own traits simply to make up for the lack of his own. His lack of effort in some areas was not to be blamed on Cistina, but himself. Vyce hoped that he would keep the lesson in his head, not only to have it remiss again a week in the future. It was time to stop his pathetic self-pity and work for his own future, not simply act because the man he despised acted in the opposite way. The Walister needed strength and representation, and Denam was unwilling to give them that. Denam fought for his own goals, not the goals of his people.

"I want to protect my people." was Vyce's simple reply.

Cistina looked up from him and to the roof. Her body language seemed exasperated. Vyce lifted his head from her lap, but remained close; if he tried to move away, he knew Cistina would follow him. "But that's not the _problem _Vyce." Cistina breathed in deeply, calming herself and pausing so she can think on her words. Cistina turned to face Vyce, causing the man to look away quickly, not wanting to see his imagination's tricks. "You're withering away in here. You try to atone, but you've still not forgiven yourself. Your lack of ability to act tears you apart."

Vyce felt his anger spike again, heat rushing to his face and fists clutching on his lap. It was Vyce's turn to take a calming breath. He leaned back and put his hands on the floor behind him to help prop himself up. "What is there to forgive? I've not done anything I regret."

"You're lying." Cistina used that scolding tone that said she could read him like a book. Her normally high voice was not intimidating, but Vyce found it remarkably hard to ignore nonetheless. "Since you will not speak of what ails you, I will have to guess on my own. You want to fight, but you refuse to do so because Denam would be your companion. You are sick of being used and thrown away, you seek permanence, but know you cannot get it by sitting here for days. You hate that you rely on me for food and shelter, and - most of all - you hate that your emotions are an erratic mess that you never learned to control as a child." Cistina's look was curious, but surprisingly not self-satisfied. Her tone was light, almost playful. "How close am I?"

"You continually make assumptions about subjects you know nothing of." Vyce bit out, gritting his teeth, pressing his lips together in a firm line. He did not like having his immaturity shoved in his face. It was especially insulting considering how immature Cistina's idealistic fantasies were.

"Is that so? Then tell me, Vyce. Your nightmares and their accompanying screams tell me more than you wish to admit." Vyce was glad it was dark, he did not want Cistina to see his shocked, offended, and even submissive features. Her words were not mocking, but Vyce almost felt as if she purposely antagonized him in order to get him to react and tell her what she desired to know.

"You're right, I do wish to act." Cistina nodded, trying to get Vyce to continue. He had no problems speaking such obvious things, it was his own issues that he would never discuss. He continued, even if to only make Cistina happy. "I am not yet ready to lay my life down to the people of my country for judgment." He would be damned before he admitted aloud Cistina was right on the other accounts.

Cistina got up without a word, shaking her head. "Then perhaps I should give you motivation?" Vyce didn't understand. "According to rumors, Catiua has allied with the Dark Knights Loslorien."

Vyce's eyes widened in the darkness. Surely he heard incorrectly. Surely _Cistina _had heard incorrectly. Was she saying such things to get a reaction from him? "What?" Was all Vyce could say, his thoughts flooded with varying emotions of confusion, anger, betrayal, and horror. He could not accept that Catiua was more a traitor than her brother.

"Perhaps it would be better if you heard for yourself; they are more than rumors, Vyce. Catiua left Denam by the time you and I met in Rhime, but we were unsure of where she had gone." Cistina stretched, hands together above her head, making a soft moaning squeak. She dug through her small pack of belongings, before finally lifting her head. Vyce couldn't see what she had pulled out, but it quickly became obvious it was her brush, as she started running it through her hair. Cistina seemed to have no intention of sleeping any longer. Her voice was quiet, barely above the sound of the brush tugging through her snarls, continuing her words where she left off, comment offhanded and meant for herself than Vyce. ". . .Now we know."

Cistina dressed herself an Vyce picked himself off the floor. He kept his distance, giving her privacy, and faced towards the door. Had Catiua really betrayed them? The Dark Knights? The very people he and Denam both - and the only thing the two would agree on - had struggled against? The very people who had destroyed their family, friends, and hometown? Vyce found it impossible to believe, but why would Cistina lie to him? Cistina had shown Vyce more tolerance than Catiua ever had, the latter showing only annoyance and disdain. Perhaps Cistina had misheard? Perhaps it was another Catiua? Vyce continually thought up excuses, each denying more than the last, until Cistina approached him, fully dressed. Vyce's eyes widened as Cistina held out a his very familiar dagger.

"Come, Vyce. I won't let you wilt in here any longer. We must learn the truth and you need to fulfill your dream." Vyce looked towards the weapon in Cistina's small hand, its outline shadowy. It was almost alien to him now, a memory of a life he had struggled to forget: used by Leonar, betrayed by his friends, hated even by his own people. He needed to stop running, from the shadows whose faces changed, from the nightmares of children's gazes - innocent, pure, dead, from his own weakness, and most of all, from his responsibility. He would never get along with Denam, but Denam held the key to their freedom. He had numbers and, as Vyce was loathe to admit, he had charisma that Vyce's own blunt personality lacked.

Vyce lifted his dagger from Cistina's hand, grasping the hilt painfully. The sun wasn't rising yet, but by the time he finished cleaning and grooming himself, perhaps it would be.


	14. Acceptance: OzCerya

This story is a gift for a good friend of mine who drew me a wonderful OzOzma picture.

The prompt I was given, it might well be a summary, is as follows:  
>3C: A vengeful Cerya attacks and incapacitates Oz, only to end up hesitating at the last moment and sparing his life. To prevent further spoilers, I will only say that Oz was requested to be "redeemed" in a sense.<br>In other words, it is exactly the opposite of what happens in my previous CeryaOz fiction. I can't say how strictly I've followed the prompt, but I've done my best.

I regret to say that the end result is extremely cliché, but for those unsatisfied or disgusted with the previous CeryaOz, this might just be what you're looking for, as it is more traditional for a romance scenario, even if there might be some OOC.

As I've attempted to make Oz a "somewhat decent" ("good" is not in his vocabulary) person, I've tried something different with his character. Despite the game having him come off as cruel, which he is, I've also elaborated on his more vulnerable side which is shown primarily in the final battle of 3C and, to a lesser extent, his dialogue in both CODA and 3N. You'll also see some parallels to Ozma's recruitment in 4L.

_**Acceptance**_

* * *

><p>"I demand vengeance for our fallen!"<p>

Cerya's voice was filled with malice and hate as her spear pierced at the taller Knight Commander. His armor was dark and thick; Cerya worried her spear would be unable to penetrate it without an enchantment or magic. In spearplay, Cerya knew it was necessary to find and exploit the armor's weaknesses, possibly even remove or weaken it to the point where she could pierce into the soft flesh it hid. A quick glance over at the red-headed male who evaded the thrust, eyes roaming up and down his body in desperate effort to evaluate his capabilities, told Cerya hid underarms, hands, thighs, and neck would be effective places to maim. An attempt to strike at the Templar's boots, upper arms, or chest would cause an unenchanted spear to simply bounce off and like cause her a moment of weakness from the spear's rebound. The man followed her gaze and noted her goal before he drew his own heavy weapon and leaned it over his shoulders. To Cerya's anger, he smiled, a horrible look she had seen on him from when he and his Templars murdered the Front as his own eyes swept over her, searching for her own weakness. Cerya was not a heavily armored woman, but her magic and skill made up for her weakness in defense.

The halls were filled with corpses, bodies twisted in brutal ways, armor dented, and bloodied weapons, some with limp, dismembered hands still attached. From a few soldiers, groans still sounded, some releasing a distorted gurgle that signified they drowned on their own blood. Both sides had taken casualties in the battle, but to Cerya it was quite obvious at first glance that the Bakram had suffered the most deaths. The Resistance's losses had been heaviest when they tried to breach Phidoch's white walls, where the Bakram main force had been mobilized. Most of the Lodissians had fled; they left the Bakram to their fate at the hands of Denam's Resistance.

"Now there's a woman with flint in her voice and fire in her eyes!" Cerya barely hear his words among the echo of moans from the wounded, grunts from the soldiers on both sides, and, even louder, the clash of metal against metal and the songs of magic spells whirling in the air. Cerya's magic was channeled constantly, her own power added to the soft vibration and hum. The man took a step forward, ignoring the battle around them; it was as if they were the only two warriors in battle. Cerya took a deep breath in preparation, the smell of hot sweat and body odor filling her nostrils from the dirty men around her. The man seemed to enjoy leisurely caressing her with his rust-colored eyes; it made Cerya shiver in disgust to be leered at by such a monster. He was closer now, within range of her spear. Cerya needed to keep him at a distance, for if he approached he would have the advantage in strength. He whispered, but his words ripped through her body, twisting her innards and making the bile rise in her throat. "'Twould be a pity to scar such a lovely face. Perhaps I'll cut your feet off at the ankles instead."

"Disgusting." Cerya hissed in return and tried ignore the vivid image that came to mind at his words; her mind teased her with flashes of an abysmal future, where Cerya struggled on the floor as blood poured from the stubs that had once been her ankles and she attempted to crawl out of the man's reach. Cerya resisted the urge to shake her head and clear the thoughts, instead she allowed the horrible fantasy to fuel her hatred. Passion renewed, her disgust partially faded, Cerya again thrust at the Templar with her spear, her aim directed at his lightly armored thighs. With remarkable speed for such a large weapon, the man knocked the tip of her spear away. Cerya lost her grip temporarily and was forced to take a step forward to rebalance her own and her weapon's weight in her hands, speaking to him in attempt to distract him from her moment of weakness. Cerya knew he saw it, but to her surprise the man played along. I am Cerya, of the Liberation Front. You had your chance to kill me, but you let it pass. For what you've done to me, for what you've done to my people, I will have your head!"

"That's no way to speak to an opponent. Do you islanders know no honor?" The man laughed, a mocking sound. His question was not meant to be answered, for his tone was spiteful enough that he already made his decision. He shifted his balance between one leg and the other, almost bored. He was snapped out of his odd little game as a Resistance soldier tried to strike at him. The Templar's attention was immediately drawn from Cerya and onto the closer man. The man was wounded, his left arm hanging limply; Cerya applauded his courage for striking the Commander in his state. The commander blocked his attack with his heavier weapon, causing the man to grunt and swing broadly. Seeing the Templar's distraction, Cerya channeled her power quickly, the warm fire flowing through the air between she and her opponent, hoping to catch the man in a pincer attack. The Lodissian's eyes widened, realizing his predicament; his next action surprised her, instead of trying to block the magic, he instead focused his entire attention on the warrior, turning to the side to minimize damage. The strategy worked well for one thought up on an instant and though the red cloth covering his armor was singed and his right glove was burnt off, revealing the pale, almost delicate looking und underneath, he was able to block the other man's attacks and respond in kind.

Cerya tried again, channeling her power and directing it in a larger area around him. She knew she could not keep the casting up forever, but if she could distract him long enough to close in and pierce him with her spear, it would be worth it. As she cast, she approached the Commander, spear in front of her defensively, waiting to block the strikes in his direction. The warrior had recovered from the Templar's retaliation and about to attack when he saw Cerya casting. The Commander was an intelligent man, surprisingly familiar with the art of combat magic; she did not expect it from him considering his demeanor and larger weapon. He closed in on the unnamed warrior, getting close so that if Cerya was to hit the range around him, she would hit the warrior as well. Cursing under her breath, Cerya stopped herself from casting, but continued her approach, thrusting at him in time with the warrior's on powerful strikes. The Commander was able to dodge by a quick backstep and block the warrior's slash with his axe**, **but he had a frown on his face, knowing he was in danger. In an instant, darkness surrounded his body, a spell powerful enough that only one very skilled in magic could use. The power manifested itself outwards as it flowed in the shape of large tendrils that swallowed the light wherever they touched. From her position at a distance, Cerya was able to avoid the area effect, but the warrior was not as lucky, for he still locked weapons with the Lodissian. The darkness spiraled around the commander's axe in shades of deep red and black, surrounding the warrior and enveloping him. The wounded man screamed and fell to the ground in pain, unable to stand any longer. Cerya expected the Templar to kill him, but to her surprise, the Templar simply kicked his weapon away and stood over his neck. Cerya immediately drew her weapon and rushed toward him, but it was too late; the red-head brutally dismembered the man's other arm, his scream echoing loudly through the hall, shaking Cerya to her core. Blood flew about, spraying onto the floor, into the air, and onto the Commander's armor giving the dark metal a wet sheen. Cerya didn't see where the arm with the sword flew, but she was unsure she wanted to know. Almost immediately after, a large pool of blood formed around the man as he writhed under the weight of the Lodissian male, who finally released his weight and kicked him violently in the stomach, lips a sneer at the man's own contorted expression of pain. "Go. Crawl away like the pathetic worm you are."

Belatedly Cerya realized she had paused in horror to witness the cruel act. She had expected the Templar to give the warrior a quick death, not leave him in misery to get trampled on by unknowing soldiers. His actions showed immeasurable cruelty, but she was unsurprised given the brutality he had shown at Boed. Cerya quickly regained control and forced herself out of the shocked daze. Before she could move, the brave man, lashed out in attempt to kick the commander. Cerya was not a religious woman any longer, but if she were, she would have prayed to Philaha that the man get only peace and happiness for his sacrifice this day. The Lodissian easily avoided the warrior's man's squirmy kicks and quickly cast a spell down in his direction, paralyzing him. The wounded soldier's distraction gave Cerya the opening she had hoped for. Rushing forward, Cerya slashed with her spear in attempt to disorient him compared with her previous thrusts. As she did so, she quickly enchanted with her spear with Fire magic in attempt to more easily damage her armored opponent. His skill in magic was impressive and Cerya realized that if they only fought with spells, she would likely lose.

In an instant, the man's axe was up defensively and his attention fully on Cerya. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in annoyance as Cerya struck at him; her fire-enchanted spear met his enchanted axe and magic flaring between them, bright sparks of heat flying off onto the floor only to dissipate in an instant. Cerya grit her teeth in anger as the man calmed himself and caught his breath. He seemed to be calmer now that he only had Cerya to deal with. He finally spoke, the amused tone returning. "'Twas unfair of you to attack in conjunction with that man. I thought we had agreed to a duel, no?" Cerya was baffled at the question, for she certainly had not agreed to anything of the sort. She would have him dead, no matter the means. Perhaps the 'agreement' stemmed from Lodissian tradition, or perhaps he simply wanted a reaction. Cerya frowned and kept her gaze locked on him in refusal to reply. "I've realized my terrible manners, my lady. I am Oz, but that is irrelevant; when we are done and you beg on the floor beneath me, the only name you will know me by is 'master.'" He looked positively predatory.

"I care little for your name and less for who you are." Cerya stepped back, she kept her expression controlled and calm. The flow of their power between them stopped, but the tension only increased. She spun her spear into a more comfortable position, keeping the Commander at a distance. Her opponent obviously knew that spears had an advantage in their length, but he seemed to toy with her and allowed her to strike at him as if it were some sadistic game. "Enough with your games. One of us will die this day and it will not be me!"

"Such impatience. Very well. Hate me, loathe me, show me your rage - they make you all the more stunning." The Templar took the offensive, moving with speed that belied his heavy weapon and armor. Cerya found herself pressed to defend herself against the onslaught off attacks. Even without magic, the man was a formidable foe, and his strength easily overwhelmed hers. His advantage came at moderate and close range; Cerya needed to flee to where her weapon relied less on defensive slashes and more on sharp, direct pierces. The Commander knew Cerya needed the range, but pressed in on her, refusing to allow her the range she desperately needed to go on the offensive. Cerya focused only on her enemy, ignoring the struggling men around her. At one point, as she paced backwards, she ran into someone, her focus so intense on Oz that she had not heard or felt them behind her. She and the man she hit both grunted and she heard a loud scream in her ears shortly after, feeling wet blood splash against the back of her hair. Cerya felt a moment of remorse, but it was gone an instant later when Oz struck dangerously close to her hand, sending shudders through her wrist and elbows. Cerya almost lost her grip on her spear as she held the now-unbalanced weapon in one hand. The red-head's speed remained consistent and Cerya knew she would likely be unable to block the next attack.

A plan formed within her. It a brash, foolish plan, but it was all she could come up with to survive his onslaught. Cerya released her spear with her second hand immediately as Oz struck down on it. Cerya allowed herself to fall to the ground and grunted as her knees hit the hard stone floor. She rolled instinctively towards the Templar, focusing on speed. She could see little more than a blur as she twisted along the floor, but to her satisfaction, and likely a large amount of good fortune, Cerya was able to quickly re-obtain her spear before it clattered away into the midst of battle. To lose her spear in battle would have been preferable to her hand or arm; Cerya still had a dagger if she needed it, but against an axe and Oz's heavy armor it would do very little, but as a last resort she would be able to slit his throat, even at the cost of her own life. Cerya found herself sweating, not out of heat or even exhaustion, but out of stress, worry, and her obsession with vengeance. Her own goals were tore away at her and caused undue exhaustion. Cerya knew such focus only harmed her prowess, but she simply could not allow the villain to get away with his deeds, nor would she allow anyone else to have his head.

Though rearmed, Cerya needed to find an opening when she could stand. Oz again seemed amused, if a bit annoyed, at Cerya's continued struggle for victory. With one knee on the ground and the other vertical, Cerya was able to use her spear to defend against the next two of the Lodissian's attacksby raising her spear above her_**, **_but with some difficulty. She did not have her legs to support her, each hit almost knocked her backward, and on the second block Cerya's spear tip made a loud, screeching sound against the stone floor. Cerya cursed, for she knew her spear's length worked against her; if it caught on the floor in attack or defense, Cerya would be open to attack.

"Oz. . .brother. . .I'm sorry. I've failed."

The words were spoken from a distance and were little more than a whisper, the a weak, feminine voice cried out in pain. Cerya knew the words were likely amplified by the woman's magic in a moment of final desperation to touch her brother, who was apparently the man Cerya was fighting. Cerya was not the only one who heard the final words, for the battlefield had been, amazingly, swept into silence, both the Resistance and the Bakram-Valerian armies. Almost in unison, the heads turned towards the female Knight Commander, who was on the upper level. She was in the arms of a member of the Resistance, a blind man named Hobyrim, whose sword pierced through her neck. Cerya had seen the man fight before; he was a brilliant swordsman, almost frighteningly so. The Templar grasped at Hobyrim, her fingers clutched at his robes, in turn, he encircled her waist with his arms. Cerya couldn't be sure from such a distance, and perhaps it was simply her imagination playing tricks on her, but she could swear there were tears in the other woman's eyes.

As the woman slumped to the ground, cheers rose throughout the Resistance troops. Cerya herself smiled at the death of one of the monsters who destroyed the Liberation Front. She wished she could have ended the woman as well as her current target, but the man was just as guilty; he would have to do to sate the restless spirits of her comrades and friends. From in front of her, the Knight Commander had completely stopped his attack, his eyes wide and body seemingly paralyzed in shock. His lips were parted and sweat that previously not covered his face dripped from his hairline, darkening the hair to an auburn. He was shaking and Cerya could tell from his grip that he was nearly ready to drop his axe on the floor. It was as if he had forgotten Cerya existed. "Sister. . ." was the only word that came from his mouth, soft, desperate, lonely. He unintentionally released a gagged sound from the back of his throat. Had situations been different, Cerya would almost feel pity for the man, but as it was now, countless of her friends had been harmed by him, only to give similar death cries. He had not cared for their deaths, no, he only reacted when it was someone close to him. Her spite only grew at the revelation.

As the woman's blood flow slowed against Hobyrim, the warriors seemed to break out of their trance, only to remember where they were. Her opponent continued staring, his eyes dark and troubled. Cerya stood, a bit wobbly at first, and regripped her spear to point it at the red-head. He ignored her as Hobyrim slid the woman's body to the floor. The blond man leaned over her and Cerya could not tell what happened, but the motions were delicate and controlled. Hobyrim's manner was completely different than what she had seen of him while in the camp. The Lodissian in front of her shook and quivered in rage at the other man's actions. He pressed his eyes closed and Cerya could hardly believe she saw tears form. He turned towards her, eyes burning with hatred; the look likely mimicked the look in her own eyes when she had demanded vengeance upon him.

"You killed her! You. . .I will revel in your death!" His voice raised in pitch to almost a screech as he clutched at the grip of his axe until his fingers were white. He rushed heedlessly towards Cerya, as if he did not care for his safety. As Cerya would have done to him, he was now willing to do to her; he cared little for his personal safety. Oz wanted Cerya dead and he would do it, no matter the cost to his own health. Cerya spread her legs on the floor in preparation for the onslaught of attacks, but before the Templar could reach her, he gasped out in pain, falling onto one knee. Cerya withdrew and thought it perhaps an odd strategy, but immediately noticed a large arrow protruding from his left thigh. Cerya looked around quickly in attempt to find the archer, but with the bodies of warriors around her on all sides, she could not find anyone she recognized. The red-head was intelligent enough to not try and remove the large arrow and struggled to his feet. The arrow had torn through his muscle; his movements were stiff, weight unbalanced. His axe, too, had its weight forced onto his right side, but the desperate look in his eyes remained unchanged and he continued his approach.

Oz's motions were predictable, and Cerya found it easy to block even the full force of his attacks. Each hit caused the muscles in her upper arms pain, for she was not built to withstand such heavy attacks and her clothing did nothing to alleviate that stress. She was dressed for flexible movements and quick attacks, not fierce hits from a large, enchanted battle-axe. Fortunately, Oz's motions were sluggish and Cerya was easily able to determine his pattern. Looking over his body, Cerya waited until he struck at her again and guarded the attack with her spear before she again rolled away. She grunted at the rough motion from such a height, but recovered quickly out of necessity and immediately approached her opponent, thrusting from a distance quickly in multiple directions, knowing he would be distracted and unable to block them all. He did a very effective job guarding, but in his distraction, Cerya channeled her power, releasing a large swirl of fire. Unable to block both the strong fire and her spear, the Templar chose to block the more damaging flames with his axe, giving Cerya the opening she needed. She thrust her spear clean through Oz's leg, the flesh giving easily as the tip pierced it. She did not hit the bone, fortunately, and the man fell to the ground, releasing a loud grunt as he knees slammed into stone. He loosened his axe as he fell, able to land on his palms, but unable to stand. His grit his teeth and Cerya again noticed the tears had formed in his eyes. Was the man so weak that he would cry from pain? Cerya did not remove her spear, but she walked forward, twisting the spear around in his leg, damaging the delicate muscle and tissue before she ripped it out, laving a large circular wound that blood poured from. Though his legs were covered with pants, she could see the liquid encircled the wound quickly, the fabric darkened around it.

His breath came out in rasps and he reached again for his axe. Cerya watched his motion for a half-second before she pierced the spear through Oz's hand and into the stone floor. For a moment, he tried to struggle against the weapon, only opening the wound on his hand further. He soon realized that moving his hand was futile and Cerya could see his mind working for ways around it to damage her. He looked up meeting her eyes. Cerya found the position to be remarkably pleasant as she looked down upon the Commander. She sneered at him, and his eyes only darkened in response. His jaw was set and he grated his teeth. The sweat on his face, now thicker as he attempted to withstand the pain of multiple deep wounds, caused his hair to fall from its formal position and fall over his forehead. His chest rose and fell in anger. Cerya found her own breaths to be deep, but hers was from anticipation rather than pain.

Cerya again twisted her spearpoint in the Lodissian's hand, making sure he would be unable to wield any two-handed weapon. As she did so, she looked towards it, only to realize Oz had fallen over completely and released loud gasps. For some reason he had put his weight onto the hand she just wounded. As she removed the spear, Cerya belatedly realized what had happened and why he had fallen over; the Knight Commander had used his dagger to stab her in the calf. The pain immediately began and Cerya was tempted to tear it out, but she could not, knowing it would likely cause more damage. With the Lodissian was on the floor, Cerya knew she could not waste her chance. Kicking him with all of her weight and using the butt of her spear to knock into the chest of the heavily armored man, she fell on top of him, her own injured leg unable to support her weight. Oz gasped at the heavy new weight on his chest and Cerya hissed at the pain of hard metal digging into her stomach and legs.

The man lay on his back with Cerya atop him. Cerya was able to recover from the shock first and got onto her good knee, forcing it onto his armor. She knew her spear would be pointless at such a range and instead drew her dagger, leaning down over the man's face, meeting his eyes. She forced the sharp blade into his throat and spent a moment to revel in her victory. The man's eyes seethed in fury, but no longer did he struggle; he knew of his defeat. Cerya could almost taste the blood on her lips; soon the Front would be avenged!

But something was wrong. Cerya lifted her head away from his. The red-head watched her but not attempt to move. Cerya was surprised, for she had relented slightly on accident and he had not taken advantage of her moment of hesitation. Instead, it was as if he was dead and no longer had any desire to live. The reaction infuriated Cerya further. _How dare he!_ For all the lives he had taken he should beg before her as he asked forgiveness, not simply wait and accept the death she would bring. It struck her immediately what had been so odd about the latter part of their battle.

" Why did you not use your magic? . . .Do you desire an end to your life?" Cerya did not release her dagger, but she grasped at the cloth below her, almost tearing it with the force of her grip.

Oz ignored her words. The only reason she knew he heard them at all was because he replied. "I've failed; my house and country are dishonored. My life is forfeit, my soul ripped asunder. Do away with me now, as you've longed to." His voice remained cold and detached, and though he could have kicked and squirmed, he did not. Instead, he lifted his hand, grasping at something Cerya could not see. She followed his gaze and realized what he wanted so badly; his sister, alone within the pile of bodies on the upper level. Cerya could not see from their lower vantage point, but she knew the floor surrounding her was covered in blood.

The music of battle around them seemed to be dying down. The clash of weapons was still loud, but it was no longer a roar. The moans that had once only scattered the room now completely enveloped it. At a quick glance, Cerya could tell the majority of the fallen still remained Bakram-Valerian, but Resistance members also were quite common. The Bakram and remaining Loslorien had put up quite a fight in their knowledge that it would be their last stand. Even as enemies, Cerya could acknowledge their strength and bravery. Around the room, Cerya more easily found those she was familiar with. Denam had made his way to the upper level, which was now cleared of soldiers. Archers, Cerya knew the women to be Arycelle and Sara, were with him, their arrows piercing targets from the height advantage. Hobyrim was nowhere to be found, despite the earlier scene; Cerya found herself desperately searching for Cistina, in hope to find her unharmed. Her sister did not seem to be close; a brief wave of panic flowed through Cerya, she would be torn apart if she lost her sister from her blind pursuit of vengeance.

In disgust, Cerya looked back down. The man remained limp, but his arm had fallen to the ground. His gaze continued to remain in the direction of his fallen sister. Tears openly fell and he squinted in attempt to clear his vision. Cerya again raised her dagger to his neck; Oz tensed, in his knowledge that the end was to come, but again she lowered it, before she regretfully put it back into its sheath. Killing him now would make her just as much a monster as he.

"Death is too good for you. You will not go to be with her, not yet."

Cerya got off of Oz and stood her weight onto her left, strong, leg. She picked up her spear and leaned on it for support to avoid further damage to the wound. The Bakram-Valerians and remaining Loslorien were routed quickly, but all Cerya could do was stare at the carnage as the desperate hatred threatened to overwhelm her.

* * *

><p>Phidoch's "infirmary" bustled with life - or death if you asked the Clerics and healers. After the castle had been taken, Denam ordered the living to be gathered and healed by all available and capable of healing. The "true" infirmary had filled up almost instantaneously; with no room, many wounded soldiers overflowed the doors and were forced into the halls. Everyone who was unwounded avoided the crowded corridors as if they carried a plague, for they not only sounded of unpleasant moans and loud screams, but they smelled of decaying flesh, enflamed, infected wounds, and death.<p>

Cerya had declined a visit to the healers. Her laceration was not serious, simply lightly debilitating. After she properly wrapped and cleaned it, Cerya wanted the painful wound to be left alone so she could pretend it did not exist. Denam, kind man that he was, refused to allow her to do so and had ordered her away until she received proper treatment. Cerya resisted the urge to scold their young leader for his lack of foresight; that the healers had many other life-threatening problems to deal with. Cerya's wound was light, but she was also aware that he meant well and only wanted what was best for her. After considerable dispute, Cerya finally gave in and went to the cramped hall. Her limp barely obvious to anyone who did not know she had it, but each step sent sharp pain through her leg. Cerya looked over all of the bodies through the hall; most were unfamiliar to her, but a few faces she recognized as those who she had commanded in-battle. Cerya lowered her head respectfully as she passed by the dead; she no longer served Philaha, but she wished them well in the afterlife all the same.

"So he sent you here, as well?" The voice was feminine, but also surprisingly deep. Cerya looked around, her head raised. A few paces from her stood a lean red-head, hair loose and falling behind her. Cerya found herself staring for a moment before recognizing it as Arycelle; she looked different when not in armor - younger, perhaps, more vulnerable. Her demeanor and tone revealed her maturity and she gave Cerya a half-smile as she approached.

"'Tis not only me that Denam harasses?" Cerya forced a smile onto her features, trying to show her good humor. She was not a woman to express emotions easily and it often made others uncomfortable when she spoke casually. In return, Arycelle held her hands out, fingers covered in large, thick bandages. One of the bandages showed signs of dark blood beneath it, as if Arycelle had accidentally opened her wound and it had not stopped its bleeding. The skin of her fingers had likely shredded from drawing and releasing the bowstring during the prolonged siege of Phidoch. Even with gloves, human flesh could only withstand so much stress.

"He means well." The women were not on a first-name basis, and Arycelle apparently felt uncomfortable addressing Cerya at all. Cerya nodded silently, hair falling beside her face over her shoulder; Denam was a good man, young, idealistic, revolutionary even, but good. He kept to the ideals that Cerya had rejected and, unlike her, would likely be able to bring peace to their country. He was so different than she remembered. In her memories, Denam was still a young blond toddler, quiet, delicate, often giggly as he ran through the gardens with young Olivya. Babysitting them had been more than a little difficult, Cerya mused. Now Denam was a completely different man, almost opposite who he used to be. He was taller than Cerya now, no longer delicate, instead toned, and with a firmer demeanor. He smiled often, but very few were true smiles, his emotions locked in a bottle. He was still quiet and very much resembled his father; Cerya wondered how no-one could tell he was Bakram.

The silence between the women dragged before Cerya, agitated, walked towards the line at the end of the hall. Arycelle followed behind her, footsteps surprisingly quiet despite her confident stride. It made sense; Arycelle was an Archer, she needed silence to ambush her opponents.

"That Templar, the one from Boed?" Cerya froze mid-step at Arycelle's words, eyes widening as she turned towards Arycelle behind her; her leg cramped from the fast motion. Arycelle's features held a confident smirk. "I hope you got the bastard. I was at a bad angle, so his thigh had to suffice rather than something more. . .incapacitating. I know you spoke constantly of landing the killing blow."

Cerya forced herself to turn back around. The motion was slower than she intended and she held in a shudder at the pain that spiked up her leg. She walked, or perhaps it was more a wobble, down the hall in attempt to avoid Arycelle's question. Cerya felt a mixture of rage and sorrow. She wanted to kill that man, to feel his life between her fingers, but to do so would be to give him what he wanted: honor in death and the ability to see his sister again. Cerya clenched her hands in anger. She felt dirty, disgusting, at even sharing the same feelings as that man, even if they were as common as simple love for their sisters. Her sister was missing, possibly wounded and most likely dead. The thought terrified her and Cerya was overwhelmed with guilt. If Cistina was dead, Cerya's own blind hatred and fury was to blame. Instead of protecting Cistina, she had focused only on the Knight Commander.

The line for those not badly wounded was long and slow. Cerya's strong leg hurt almost as badly as her wounded one simply from having her weight on it. Rather than the spikes of pain from her gash, her other leg pounded from the constant increased pressure. Cerya resisted the urge to slump against the wall; instead she worked hard just to keep her head held high and stature confident. Arycelle noticed her weakened position and attempted to help Cerya with an offered arm, but Cerya knocked it away with unintentional force. She would not rely on others for her strength. Cerya waited as patiently as she could for the Cleric to come to her. She watched the women and men as they worked, most looked exhausted, their skin pale and worn, and all looked like they had not slept in days. Many of the Clerics had blood on their clothes, some simply in splatters, others in large blots. Cerya closed her eyes from the scene and breathed deeply. The smell still penetrated the halls and the air was thicker this deep in, away from many open windows. Cerya hoped none of these men were diseased, for it would spread rapidly through the wounded troops.

Finally unable to stand any longer, Cerya leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. She pressed her legs together as to not expose her undergarments and spread her legs out in front of her. Arycelle kneeled beside her, hand on Cerya's shoulder to comfort her. Cerya did not push her away this time, instead looking down to the floor, hair falling in front of her face. She knew it only hurt her, to try and push herself to stand, but again she crawled to he knees, unwilling to submit, even to her own body. As she tried to rise, Cerya found herself pulled back down by two pairs of hands. She looked up and glared, seeing one to be Arycelle and another to be one of the Clerics. Cerya finally relented and without a word, removed her boot, and pointed to Cerya's home-made wrapping. Cerya grimaced when she realized her laceration had bled through the bandage, her own stubbornness causing her wound to worsen. Cerya looked to her boot beside her, half-expecting to see the mark of blood on the outside, but was pleased to see the blood hadn't soaked the leather entirely.

The Cleric quickly placed her tools on the ground and unwound the bandage stained bandage. She tossed the bloody material aside and looked over to her tool bag, where she pulled out a rag and a bottle. Cerya worried that the rag could have been used on past patients, but she also knew she had little choice in the matter; there were too many wounded and not nearly enough servants to keep all of the material clean. "A knife." Cerya bit out as the woman washed her exposed flesh with the alcohol, her hand ran a cloth over the wound as she soaked it. "I just need a light healing. Save your strength for those who desperately need it." The Cleric looked up at her with a tired smile and nodded before pressing the rag harder. The pressure stung, and Cerya shuddered involuntarily as the woman re-opened her wound with small metal items that seemed to be used entirely for this purpose of dissection. The Cleric poked into Cerya's wound, gently tearing and cutting away small strips of flesh. Cerya breathed hard to avoid showing any pain, but the muscle was tender and sweat dripped her face and hands. After a moment, the tearing stopped and with a small "clink" the woman ran alcohol over her tools and put them back in her small bag. She put her hands over Cerya's leg and the small tingle of healing magic burned through her. The woman was skilled in her art, but also tired; what was usually a pleasant caress was somewhat forced and uncomfortable, like rubbing velvet in the wrong direction.

The wound was not healed when the woman finished, Cerya believed the Cleric had simply quickened the process, possibly even just reversed the damage Cerya's own stubborn walking had caused. Cerya smiled respectfully as the other woman finished re-bandaging her leg with clean wrap. The Cleric returned the smile. "You need to avoid walking on this as much as possible or you could permanently cripple the muscle. If that happens, you'll never see the battlefield again."

"Thank you." Was Cerya's demure reply and the Cleric nodded, moving over to the nearby Arycelle. They spoke lightly beside her, but Cerya paid no heed to the words. Cerya did not particularly enjoy battle, but to lose her ability to fight for her people would be a nightmare. If, even for a few days, she must remain off her feet, it would be worth it to be able to continue her struggle for a better future. Cerya slid her boot back on, noting the sticky wetness from her previously-bloody bandage running up her leg. She would need to wash herself later. She brought her knees close and rolled them over onto the ground below her as she pushed herself up off the floor. Her legs were both still sore, but also somewhat relieved from the temporarily removed pressure. It would not last long, as Cerya soon began to feel the pounds return.

"I. . ." Cerya's words drifted off. The healer looked up from her ministrations on Arycelle's hand with a confused look on her face. "Never mind." Cerya turned away, her eyes downcast and expression somber. She could hardly believe herself; she acted like an insecure child!

"Is something amiss?" The Cleric's words were kind and gentle. Arycelle watched Cerya curiously as well; Cerya wished to tell the younger woman to mind her business, but she knew Arycelle was only worried and meant no harm. Cerya inwardly felt a warmth for the younger woman, which was quickly overshadowed by her annoyance born from pain and the foul mood brought with it.

"I'm looking for someone. A woman named Cistina." Cerya heard Arycelle gasp beside her and it was not from the pain of the Cleric's touch. The Cleric nodded and motioned for Cerya to continue even as she examined Arycelle's split skin. Cerya quickly described her sister to the Cleric. "If she arrives here, please" Cerya almost wanted to get on her hands and knees and beg, but her pride would not allow her to. Instead, she put emotion into her voice; even if only a little, the concern was more than she usually showed. ". . .Please send any news of her to Cerya Phoraena." Again the Cleric nodded and Cerya wondered if she cared at all. She knew there was no way to make the busy woman listen any more than she had; if no news of Cistina came within the next day, Cerya would search for her sister herself, regardless of what she might find.

Cerya walked slowly down the hall away from the line of wounded soldiers. She barely gave any acknowledgment to Arycelle's call of well wishes, for her own thoughts were cluttered and confused. Cistina was in danger, Cerya's own revenge was unfulfilled, her country was still not unified and Cerya was in no position to fight for it. The Resistance's control of Phidoch was a large blow to both the Dark Knights and Brantyn Morne, for it moved the border north and leeched a pivotal choke point from their grasp. It was also the first step in what she knew to be a longer, harder campaign; she wanted to continue her fight, not sit around weakly. She could never forgive herself if Cistina died; for a moment, a brief flash of memory engulfed her. Young Olivya, who smiled at Denam as they played in the stream, Sherri, as she walked through the gardens, Cistina, who always ran through the breezy fields. It had been a different time and place, but it was the reason Cerya continued her battle even against impossible odds. No longer would families be torn apart as hers was, she would not allow it.

The walk back towards her room was long. None offered her help, for they knew she would only reject it, but a few offered her a smile that she did not return. In one of the side halls, to Cerya's surprise, a group of soldiers rushed by her and knocked her into the wall and out of the way. They turned back and Cerya glared at them for their rudeness; they were young, likely new recruits, faces bright, childlike and armor untouched by battle. They looked at each other and shrugged before they continued on their way in a rush to get to wherever their destination happened to be. Cerya snorted in annoyance at the children's antics as she pushed herself up from the hard wall. She continued her slow pace until she saw a crowd formed and heard a loud bustle. The people, Resistance members, servants, and citizens alike pushed their way into the Great Hall. The castle was already warm and stuffy, but so many people in such a confined area made the heat almost unbearable as Cerya approached. She resisted the urge to cover her ears, the loud wave of voices created a pound in her already-pained head; grimace on her features, she pushed her way through, only to find more and more people. Finally annoyed, she stopped and tapped the first experienced soldier she saw on the shoulder.

"What is this?" Cerya demanded, her voice a tone she usually reserved only for commands. Her victim was a scruffy man and, in contrast to the children she saw earlier, she could tell this one had seen battle. The man took a step back in surprise; Cerya was familiar with his reaction, as her accent disconcerted many Resistance members. Cerya tapped her boot in annoyance only to regret the motion a moment later as she almost staggered under he own weight.

The man's reply was cautious, his face contorted in confusion and distaste. "Some of the newer recruits are being punished. They were caught torturing our prisoners of war." Cerya frowned, unsure why that would be such a crime. Was information not one purpose to a prisoner of war? She knew Denam to be soft when it came to such acts, and he would never approve of them, but this "event" that celebrated punishment was a bit much. The man noticed her confusion and continued. "Not for information, my Lady. If you would forgive my bluntness, they tortured for pleasure and for vengeance."

Cerya held back her revulsion. With Denam's rise to power, the popularity of the Resistance had grown. No longer was it simply a Walister movement, Galgastani, Xenobians, and even Bakram had fled to the cause under the charismatic youth. Such popularity also had negative side effects; many soldiers were inexperienced children who sought glory or were sadistic former criminals who lusted after blood. Cerya knew she could not expect Denam to reject new members, but he certainly needed to find a way to filter them out. Cerya mused that perhaps new recruits should not be allowed to serve under important captains without a preparation test that determined their mental stability. She thanked the man for the information and continued her push through the crowd; the smell of the men was unbearable, a mixture of dirt, body odor, sweat, alcohol, and even sex. She scrunched her nose; combined, the smell was almost worse than that of a decayed body.

Cerya slowly made her way through the bodies. They pressed tightly together and soon cheers started; from the sounds, she assumed the culprits, whoever they happened to be, were publicly flogged. She did her best to ignore the grunts and the sharp sound of the whip strikes, but they echoed through the hall and pierced into her ears. At each strike she vividly remembered the sound of the female Templar, Oz's sister, who had also massacred to Front. The woman had not been quite as sadistic as her brother, but she held blame just the same. Though whips were a common weapon, the sound of the cries of the Front was all she could associate it with – the sound of each strike brought upon vivid recollection of the other woman's attacks. Cerya pushed through the crowd more rapidly until she reached the opening into the hallway that led to her chambers. She fled, away from the cries and the memory of what she had been unable to prevent.

* * *

><p>"Cerya, you must deal with him."<p>

Denam's voice was weary and it only emphasized to his body's exhaustion. His face looked gaunt and his hair was brushed but not washed, the oil only reminded Cerya that he was much younger than he pretended to be. He had changed his armor; when he had been confronted about it, Denam simply sighed and murmured about how his old armor had been damaged in battle. Cerya knew he omitted information but let the subject drop, it was not her business and Denam looked a more capable leader in his new garb rather than like a naive youth who played at war.

Cerya sat across from her commander, the latter who stood near the window; she was not used to being ordered about and felt indignation rise within her. She no longer wore her tall boots, for the pressure and rub of them only caused her calf to swell, and her second pair had been damaged by the Templar's blade and could not be mended. She felt exposed without the cover, especially with some of the younger recruits and their lecherous stares over her legs.

"I want nothing to do with him. He is yours; they took your father, so you've just as much justification to keep him as I." Cerya held her face to the side in refusal to meet Denam's gaze. She heard Denam sigh across from her and watched as he put his head in his hands. It was rare for him to show such a reaction and he was obviously under a good amount of stress; Cerya empathized with him. Denam stood and turned away from her. His voice remained impassive and Cerya found it impossible to determine his thoughts or emotions.

"What you and I want is irrelevant. Word has spread about the Knight Commander's presence." Cerya jumped as Denam hit his hand against the stone wall. "A few younger warriors caused a fuss and some insubordinate captains punished them. . .severely." Denam seemed truly upset. "I refuse to allow such actions to occur in my army. Public flogging is not to be tolerated." Cerya's eyes widened as she understood the implications of Denam's words.

"A fuss?" Cerya questioned Denam, who turned back around and looked down at her, as she tried to better understand the subject. Cerya uncrossed her legs in an unconscious fidget.

"They tortured him. They were stopped before he could be killed, but they made no attempt to obtain information." Denam's story rang true, as it was the same she had been told by the unknown warrior. She had thought very little of it at the time, but the pieces fit together in her mind and she understood the purpose of that mob.

"Just kill him." Cerya's voice was flat and she met Denam's gaze with her own.

"I cannot do that." Denam turned away, though his gaze relented to hers, his words and body language spoke differently. Denam would keep to his morals; he refused to kill unnecessarily and, when he did, he did so only on even and honorable grounds. Cerya thought it childish, much like Cistina, but she could also respect his true desire to end the war; that passion was why she had followed him after her own defeat. Denam continued, his words tired: "We've received news. I am heading to Brigantys to speak with the Order of Philaha." Cerya gasped but quickly closed her mouth at Denam's voiceless question. She shook her head in refusal to continue. "I'm leaving you with the castle. Be sure to deal with our problem by the time I return. Dismissed."

Cerya found herself surprised at the sharp, firm tone Denam had used. There were moments he could pass as an idealistic child, yet other times he was a firm, capable leader who produced results in a way even Cerya envied. She nodded and stood, using the table as support. She accepted that her bandaged leg was the reason why Cerya was required to stay behind, even if it hurt her ego to do so. She wanted to be afield, not rot away in the castle like a pompous noble. She turned away and walked from the room, her steps slow and stiff in refusal to show pain. Denam did not follow behind her, instead he remained in the strategy room. Cerya desperately wanted to go back to her room and pretend the orders had never been given, but her sense of responsibility, and logic, told her it was better to deal with the problem head-on rather than let it linger. If she did not confront the Lodissian now, he would haunt her, more than he already did, until she finally chose to remove him from the world. But what could she do? He wanted to die. He had information, but Cerya felt hesitant to torture even a man she hated. She could not just leave him to rot. Perhaps she should sell him into slavery? She frowned at that, but kept it in the back of her mind as an option. Morals had not stopped her while she was in the Front; she had been willing to assassinate Ronwey, Barbatos, and Morne and would have felt no remorse, why had she suddenly hesitated in her means?

It was Denam, damn him. His righteousness had spread to her; Cerya cursed herself and how easily she had been influenced. Cerya walked back to her room slowly as she pondered on how to deal with the troublesome Lodissian who was now her charge. The halls bustled with soldiers; apparently, Denam had already given orders to some of his men. Many of them saluted Cerya as they passed and, while she acknowledged them, she did not particularly care who they were. Her room was nearby, fortunately, and the walk was not long. As she entered, she looked expectantly onto her table in hope that news of Cistina had arrived while she was away. As always, the table lay bare and Cerya felt a pang in her chest. Cerya allowed a bit of her limp to show as she shut the door behind her. She looked around cautiously for enemies and saw none before she finally relaxed and leaned over to remove her shoes. Her guest chambers were empty and appeared unlived in, with only a small table near the window and a rather large couch against the wall, across from her fireplace. To one side of the room was her bath chamber and the other side was her bedchamber. It was a remarkably odd setup and Cerya cursed whoever had designed it.

She walked into her bed chamber and picked up her small box of medical supplies she ordered from the town. Alongside her bed was a small pitcher of water that she picked up as well - she lacked any alcohol on-hand so water would have to do. Cerya knew the infirmary could not spare any of their stock and they already used up many of the supplies from volunteers in town, so Cerya had sent for her own to not burden the healers. Tools in hand, Cerya limped through her guest room into the surprisingly large bath chambers. In the chamber was a very large tub that had been emptied by servants earlier in the day, towels to the side, and a small table that held Cerya's wash. Cerya struggled into her tub sat on the edge so that she had full access to her leg. She removed the dirty bandage gently, for even a small stroll enflamed the deep wound. Cerya knew her own refusal to simply sit slowed her recovery process.

Cerya tossed the bandage on the floor below her and took hold of one of her newly-cleaned towels. The fabric was rough between her fingers, but it was all Cerya had. She wet it with her water pitcher and rubbed it down her calf. The large cut was heavily infected and it burned at even the lightest touch, the skin around it was pink and red, though some was yellow and even fell off when she ran the towel over it. Cerya picked off the dead flesh and scabs, her breath hitched in pain at the motions. Her fingers seemed only to cause more pain, as they were inefficient and drew away more flesh than she intended. Blood quickly dripped from her newly exposed skin and Cerya again wiped it down with her towel; blood was good, she had once been told, it showed the skin would heal and the region was not permanently damaged. The blood soaked into her thin white towel quickly and Cerya pressed it hard against the wound in attempt to stop it. If it persisted, Cerya knew she would need to deal with the infection at some point.

The flow of blood slowed after a time and Cerya finally released the pressure, her hands sticky with the life-giving substance that had soaked through the towel. Cerya again poured water over her hands to clean them and wiped the water off on her clothes, she would need to change into her battle dress if she was to face the Knight Commander, so she did not care if she dirtied her clothes. Cerya picked up the unused bandage she had brought from her room and wrapped it around her leg tightly, before she firmly tied the ends together. She did not have the tools to do anything more than a makeshift binding, but it would have to do. Cerya slid her leg back over the tub and picked up her used bandages. She tossed them all into a small pile in the corner for the servants to deal with before she walked back through her room into the bed chamber. She lacked clothing, as all she had with her was her battle dress and the informal dress set she currently wore, the latter of which was covered in diluted blood. Cerya stripped off her clothes, careful not to hit her leg, and tossed it onto the floor near her bed. If the servants would not clean it, she would get to it later. Cerya lifted her battle dress over her head and slipped her arms through the large sleeves. It was a bit dirty, but it was what she was most comfortable in and it would offer her the protection she needed. Cerya tied her belt around her waist and checked her dagger instinctively, even though she knew it to be there. Her spear was in the corner of her small bed chamber and she attached it to the belt over her back. Cerya would not look out of place armed as the soldiers gathered for Denam, so she needed to finish this quickly before she received odd stares.

Cerya put her shoes back on, again her legs felt exposed without her boots and even more so now that she no longer wore the lengthy dress,and turned out the door without a look behind her. She returned to her confident stride as she walked the halls; she did not allow her pain to show. The halls were not as busy as they had been previously, for many of the men had already gathered in the courtyard. The servants she passed were very respectful and kept their distance, even if some eyed her curiously. Denam's orders had already made their way through the castle, for when she passed by guards, they stood at attention until Cerya waved them away in annoyance. She did not lead because she enjoyed the power it gave, she did so because it was a necessity. Denam knew Cerya would be a firm leader in his place and Cerya did not intend to disappoint him. Already on her mind were changes she would implement: she would create strict regimens for the new recruits and send the more experienced ones on assignments into the countryside for materials or to scout and even into Rhime to obtain more supplies. Even more importantly, she would make trade deals with merchants so the Resistance would not need to rely on inconsistent war prices.

Cerya questioned one of the guards about the location of the dungeons; the entrance was easy to find with even the simplest directions, as the closer she went the less people she encountered. The halls went from somewhat loud to almost completely silent in a matter of moments, the only sound was the clunk of her boots on the floor. There were no windows in the hall and the door to the dungeons was simple, but also remarkably normal. Had she not known otherwise, she would expect the door to simply lead into a bedroom or meeting room. The door opened easily and was not locked. Cerya frowned at her easy entry; she needed to speak with someone about the passage, it no wonder the young soldiers had easily made their way in and out of the dungeons. She stepped into the dark hallway beyond the simple door and immediately noticed the changes in the atmosphere. There was no natural light in this hall, all of the light came from torches on the wall and, because of that, the hallway was smoky and the air thick. Cerya found herself nervous in such darkness and grasped her spear. Within a few paces she encountered stairs that led downwards. Using the butt of her spear as support, Cerya made her way, very slowly, down the steep stairs into unpredictable darkness. Her calf screamed at her in pain but Cerya ignored it. After what seemed to be a half-hour, though Cerya knew it likely closer to a fifth of that time, she reached the bottom. To her surprise, it was not as stuffy as the enclosed upper hallway and she immediately noticed that, unlike the upper levels, there were small windows in each small cell. There were no guardsmen, again Cerya frowned. _What was Denam thinking? _You simply do not have prisoners without guards!

Cerya peered into each cell. All were empty, yet were used in the past to varying degrees. Some were dirtier, Cerya was not quite sure she wanted to know with what, and others seemed to lack any modern use at all. One of the cells near the entrance was bloody; there was a large table inside with tools atop it. The blood was red enough that she could tell it had been used recently in comparison to the other cells, her assumption was that it was likely the Dark Knights' torture chamber. Cerya turned away and continued walking in attempt to ignore the vivid fantasies that danced through her head at the sight of the bloodied room. Spiders and their webs filled the hall as she progressed. To her surprise, she heard voices just ahead. It was as if the speakers attempted to be quiet, but Cerya could tell they were humanoid. No rat or small beast could make such a sound. Cerya hit her spear against the floor loudly as she walked, which showed she was not only armed, but aware they were there. The voices went silent other than a weak pant. Cerya's eyebrows creased and held her breath as she turned the corner into the room she knew them to in

Inside the room was three soldiers, two warriors with swords and the third was obviously a wizard. On the floor between them was the red-headed Lodissian. He no longer had the dark armor on, a quick glance through the room showed it to be in the corner, along with his weapons. The room was almost as bloody as the torture chamber she had earlier passed, but all of the blood here was new and very likely the Templar's. She was amazed he was still alive. His breaths were shallow and weak and his stomach had a large gouge. She could see the holes where her spear and Arycelle's arrow had pierced his legs; they were crusted over with blood and pus, obviously unhealed, but they had been widened by the torturers, with large cuts through his skin almost rendering his thighs flaps rather than connected muscle and flesh. His arms, still well toned, had large swords pierced through them, the blades stuck into the crevices of the floor. Cerya though that method to be particularly foolish, for if the Knight Commander truly wanted to he could sit up - they were not keeping him pinned down. All of the toenails on his feet were removed, but Cerya could tell it had been done some time in the past, since they did not bleed, only were covered in a dried crust. In the bottom of his feet were large spikes that dug upwards; Cerya felt most ill as she looked at that, despite the obvious brutality over the rest of his body, those spikes would likely take the longest to heal. Across his chest were large strips of bruised, raw, and tender flesh, as if they had both beaten him with a large mace and whipped him afterward. Burn marks and blisters covered the Templar's face and Cerya could tell it was likely from the wizard's magic. The Lodissian had not fought back and Cerya knew, from her own battle with him, it was because he waited only for death. He hadn't opened his eyes at Cerya's arrival, instead he focused on his breaths; she could tell he held back a grimace and possibly even tears.

"What is going on here?" Cerya was surprised at how quiet her voice sounded in her ears. She was filled with rage and disgust, yet her tone spoke a different language entirely. No matter how much she hated the bloodied man on the floor, to see what was supposed to be a civilized group of soldiers act so filled her with rage. The men looked at each other and then back at Cerya. She recognized the look; they thought her weak and wanted to take her for themselves. They were not the first to have made such a mistake in the past. Cerya's rage was amplified; though she was wounded, she would die before she allowed them to touch her. Cerya leveled her spear at them in warning and one of the men chuckled. It was a dark sound that provoked Cerya to knock him over with her spear thrust; he had been too distracted, or even inexperienced, to avoid the action. The man fell backwards in response, but the light attack caused Cerya's leg to shake from pain. The Phoraena woman ignored her weakness, there would be time for it later - these children had to be removed first.

"Leave now." Again, none of them chose to respond or move. Cerya saw the wizard prepare a spell and immediately put her spear to his throat. He was inexperienced enough that Cerya could see he lacked the power and skill to create anything that would cause permanent damage to her. The young man visibly gulped; Cerya glanced over his face, but he was unfamiliar to her, likely a new recruit. One of the warriors stood from his position on the ground and Cerya moved away in defense at his drawn weapon. He was not burly and was far too small and weak to wield such a large weapon with any efficiency. His hair was unkempt and his face smudged with blood. He lacked armor and, if she judged correctly, any skill with the blade he currently held. Cerya gave them a final warning, her tone firmer. "I want no infighting. If you leave now and never return, I will forget this ever happened."

"Hey, Albert." The sitting warrior sneered to his standing friend. "This lady looks like she can handle a spear, don't you think?" His accent was low-class and Cerya could only think to call him 'Slimy.' It fit, for his face was greasy and his beard ungroomed. He looked like a common pickpocket. His words held a not-so-subtle intonation; it was not the first time she had heard that "joke."

'Albert' responded as he took a step forward sword pointed towards Cerya's chest. It was a bluff, she could tell. "Indeed. Let's see how experienced, shall we?" The man swung in a wide arc downwards in attempt to remove her legs, but his sword was heavy and he lacked room to properly swing it with force. All he could muster was a weak slash that was hardly a threat and likely would not have even cut through her bone. Cerya did not bother with a parry, instead she took a step back. She used her superior range with a spear and ran the tip through the soft flesh of his neck. She twisted the end which caused the man to make an odd gurgle. He fell hard against the wall and to the floor, his hands grasped at the wound futilely in attempt to stop the blood flow. It was too late, Cerya knew, the man would die, for she had pierced him fatally. She heard a soft grunt from the direction of the Templar, a quick glance revealed that his eyes were open. Despite his obvious pain, he seemed as amused as Cerya at the pathetic excuse for a warrior.

The sitting warrior's, 'Slimy,' eyes opened in shock at Cerya's ruthless attack. The wizard she had earlier threatened got up and, to Cerya's annoyance, ran down the hall in terror. Cerya almost sent a weak fire spell after him, but she knew he would not come back. Instead she focused her attention on 'Slimy' who now stood, weapon drawn. His sword wavered in his hand as Cerya rebalanced her spear. The motion was not meant in threat to anyone who had experienced battle with a spear-user in the past, but it terrified the boy in front of her. Cerya sighed and shook her head. In a quick motion, Cerya used the butt of her spear to strike at his stomach, the man's lack of experience rendered him unable to block. He gasped and instinctively curled up, Cerya used the vulnerability to disarm her opponent, his small one-handed sword easily fell to the ground. She held her spear towards him and he shook, coward that he was. She tilted her head towards the door, but 'Slimy' ignored the motion. Cerya would not kill this one, instead she ran her spear through his thigh, similarly to how she had harmed the Knight Commander. Unlike with the Lodissian, she did not twist her weapon, instead she removed it quickly as he fell. 'Slimy' looked up with hatred in his eyes as Cerya put the point of her weapon to his neck. As he looked up at her from the position, Cerya could tell he was no older than 17. Though not much younger than Denam, their personalities clashed significantly.

"Go. The healers will see to you." Cerya expected the man to get up in attempt to preserve his pride, but the weak child simply fell to his hands and knees and crawled, dragging his leg behind him, his wound left a trail of blood . As he crawled away and Cerya's adrenaline slowly faded, her leg begged for relief and for her to remove her weight. She almost fell over in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, but caught herself on her spear before she did so. She breathed heavily as she recovered and looked down at the wound. Blood seeped through her bandages and she cursed her own foolishness. She would never be afield at this rate! With Cerya was caught up in scolding herself, she was surprised when the Knight Commander sat up. It was an amazing motion that she could hardly believe possible in his state. He painfully tore the swords from his skin and Cerya winced as blood gushed from the new wounds. Perhaps he thought to bleed to death? He spoke to himself, his voice hoarse and weak, his accent heavy and unfamiliar.

"Children." He was stopped by a cough fierce enough to wrack his entire body. "Inefficient. Unimaginative." He could not manage more than a word at a time. Cerya had no idea what he mumbled about and thought perhaps he had gone mad from their torture. Not that being insane would be any different from his normal mindset, she corrected herself. Cerya was conflicted; She thought to leave him on the ground to bleed to death, weakened from prolonged imprisonment with little food and water. It would be a fitting, painful, and dishonorable way to die and it was exactly what he deserved. His death would solve all of their problems and the Liberation Front would be avenged. Cerya resolved herself to turn and walk away, but as she attempted to do so, her body refused to move.

_What would they think?_

Would Mother be mad that Cerya had been so overwhelmed with vengeance that she left someone to die, no matter their crimes?  
>Some already compared her to her father, who left his family in pursuit of his political games. It was true; the Liberation Front had become Cerya's life and she lost much because of it. She did not think of her father's judgment, for she had followed his footsteps already.<br>What of kind Olivya, who refused to live for herself? She was not selfish as Cerya was, and wanted to help only others in the name of Philaha - a life Cerya had long discarded. What would she say if Cerya left a man to die?  
>Sherri. . .Cerya hated any thoughts of her broken sister. Death had shattered her soul; Sherri knew above all others that death never brought happiness, a lesson Cerya knew she should learn.<br>And what of Cistina? Cerya's heart lurched deeply at the thought of her charge. Cistina, the poor girl, would loathe that Cerya had become overwhelmed with vengeance. She had begged Cerya to calm herself before Phidoch, but Cerya had not listened. If Cistina was gone, Cerya would never forgive herself, for vengeance would have taken her away.  
>Cerya's mind even brought to face an image of Denam, who saw through Cerya's mask of confidence and shattered her resolve. She had given up her own goal to help him and to do so she had put aside her morals and take up his.<p>

Cerya cursed her indecisive nature and her sudden empathy for the man bleeding to death on the floor before her. No, she would not let him die. She did not know what she would do with him, but to leave him to his death felt wrong in the very depths of her soul. Cerya walked over to the man she killed and kneeled. Her leg wordlessly thanked her for the relief of pressure and Cerya tore the man's clothes off. They would serve until she could find a healer. She sighed at her own hypocrisy; she had felt no remorse when she put her spear into this man's throat to save her own life, but she could not leave her sworn enemy to die before her eyes. It was a ridiculous conundrum.

As quickly as she could, Cerya tore the clothing into strips and then crawled over to the Templar, who examined her curiously with his weak eyes. He was a completely different man than he had been in battle, his features worn and dirty, his hair in every which direction, and his demeanor held less confidence and more caution - but the same arrogance. He did not attempt to move, for his own body was too damaged to do so and more than he had. Cerya pressed hard against the wounds where the swords had pierced. She almost wanted to scold him for their removal as he knew such was dangerous, but corrected herself before she did so – she could not simply scold the man as if they were friends. It had been a long time since she used the arts of Light magic, back before her mother had died and long before she had created the Liberation Front. The feel for it was still inside her, though she lacked skill. The most she could do was heal him lightly. She channeled her power and with embarrassingly clumsy skill at the magic - she did not trust her power enough to heal her own leg - and spread it into the Templar's wound. She knew she did not have the soft touch of an experienced healer and the magic was likely unpleasant, but both of them knew it was necessary. The Lodissian did not complain or even show any pain; compared to what he likely felt over the rest of his body, a rough tingle was nothing. After a moment, she stopped and caught her breath, her use was inefficient and she expended energy more quickly than she had intended. The wound would not be closed, but she had been able to restore muscle and torn blood vessels. She was pleased, for her ego's sake, when the Knight Commander had chosen not to mock her inexperience.

As she waited for her power to restore, she looked about and crawled over to the weapons and put them in a pile near the hallway. She certainly could not have him take his own life with them after she attempted to save it. She left his armor and large axe in the corner; the axe would be too heavy for him to lift in his state. The red-head's magic was still sealed, fortunately, but Cerya was almost tempted to paralyze him in order to prevent further movement. She soon went over to the dead man and checked his pockets, but fortunately found nothing that would be of use to Oz before she crawled back over to the Knight Commander and continued her work. He had opened his eyes again and was staring at her. Cerya did her best to ignore the look, but found his gaze increasingly uncomfortable. Even burned his face still held its pale aristocracy and Cerya doubted he would ever lose his aura of command; as she had learned, command was more than voice and expression, but body language and confidence, both of which he surprisingly retained, even as he rested in a pool of his own blood while almost naked. After she did what she could for his arms, Cerya stood, sweat on her brow, and leaned on her spear again. She looked back down and met her prisoner's eyes.

"Don't move." Cerya knew how foolish it sounded as she considered circumstances, but what else was she to say? The Knight Commander seemed perfectly willing to mock her for this particular misstep, if not for her Light magic.

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?" His words were more controlled now that he was no longer actively tortured, but they still came out in abnormal bursts.

Cerya chose to ignore his remark and bit back her retort. If she played his game, she would likely want to kill him all over again. She quickly looked over his body in attempt to analyze him for any threat to his life and saw none; at a distance, it was more obvious that most of his wounds were not recent. The sight of the spikes in his feet made her ill for they were obviously new, her stomach rolled at the large black metal that dug deeply into his skin. They could not be removed easily, but fortunately they did not seem to bleed badly. Even if she could remove them, she lacked the skill in healing to even moderately heal the gouges.

Cerya turned away and walked through the door with confidence she did not feel. She used her spear as support to more easily make her way to the upper levels. The only thing that stopped her collapse from the pain in her leg was her determination to keep that man alive.

_Cistina, this is for you._

* * *

><p>"Captain, please! He refuses treatment."<p>

Cerya put her face in her hands and ran her fingers through her bangs. With Denam gone, Cerya had to manage the remaining Resistance members within Phidoch. She quickly learned why Denam had looked so exhausted when she had last met him; she constantly ordered soldiers and servants alike as she sent messages and demanded information. She hadn't even had time for a meal.

The presence of the Cleric only made her day worse.

"I do not care what he wants. If you must, tie him down and force him into submission." Cerya snapped with unintentional harshness. She knew the Cleric was not the cause of her problems. "Her" Knight Commander, as the healers titled him, had only become increasingly difficult as he recovered; he even went as far as to demand food and water three times a day as well as water to clean himself with. She knew the Knight Commander tested the strength of his leash, but Cerya did not have the energy or desire to deal with him and his pathetic games. After she had first visited the dungeons, she ordered guards be assigned to posts outside in order to prevent further intrusions or unacceptable behavior. The dungeons were not underground, rather, they were off in a far wing on the ground level that was impossible to enter or leave through any other means but the steep stairs. Cerya's rule was firmer than Denam's and she had no problem with the capture and use of prisoners for information. Denam needed to grow up at some point and realize no matter how good he wanted to be, some darkness would always occur in a war. If Cerya had to cause the darkness on her own to keep Denam innocent, she would do so.

The Cleric looked horrified at Cerya's proposition. They were familiar with stubborn and willful patients and knew the best way to subdue them, but the thought of such force against one still wounded as the Templar apparently was beyond their logic. Cerya could feel the Cleric's lecture before it even began and she held her hand up to silence her prematurely.

"Fine. I will do what I can." Cerya motioned in dismissal and the Cleric bowed. She had originally called the other woman to see if there was news of Cistina, but the Cleric said, as they always did, that there were so many wounded that she could not possibly know every single warrior. Cistina might very well be in the wards, but Cerya would need to go through them one-by-one if she wanted to find her. To Cerya's greatest shame and regret, her duty prevented her search and she had not had much time to look. She had searched through the unidentified dead bodies, but as far as Cerya could tell, Cistina was not there. It had given her a temporary hope that Cistina was alive. She would have to accept the small hope until she was able to continue her search.

The rest of her day was spent on orders and reports. She silently cursed Denam, who was not expected back for another week - possibly more if the parley did not go as expected. In some ways, Cerya knew it was good for her; while busy, she did not have the chance to walk around or practice, so her leg had a chance to heal. The healers had been horrified at the damage Cerya had done to it when she had walked up and demanded their assistance with the Lodissian. She had completely undone any previous healing and had been required to spend the day in the her room for a more thorough healing. A few days had passed since then and she remained off her feet as often as she could. Even the small passage of time had allowed her leg to steadily make progress in recovery and it no longer oozed the yellow fluid and her skin of her leg was no longer as red.

As she put her last paper to the side, Cerya released a small sigh of relief, but also dread. She knew she had to go "deal" with the Templar. Had she her way, she would never see him again; to spare his life - not once, but twice - had taken considerable willpower. He haunted her dreams and the very thought of him filled her with not rage - not only at him, but at herself and her lack of strength. Cerya was almost tempted to send a few soldiers down in her stead, but thought better of it as he was her problem**. **Cerya's mind would not be put to rest until she dealt with both the man and the memory of the Liberation Front. Even if all that remained of the Front was in her very soul, they would not be sated until she came to peace with her inner turmoil. She had sworn she would not kill the Knight Commander; he had the answers to her questions - even if she did not know what her questions were.

Despite her constant complaints on the contrary, Cerya took the advice of the healers seriously. Her pace was slow and controlled. She did not allow her limp to show as she walked the halls, but spent the time to carefully prepare her steps to lower the pressure on her calf. The castle was cool and humid, a soft rain fell from the sky and mud filled the entrance hall from the soldiers' dirty boots. Cerya was not particularly fond of rain, preferring warm summer days, and the clouds served to darken her mood, but she admitted it was a welcome relief from the hot, stuffy crowded halls where she could only smell the odor of soldiers. As she walked the halls, she spent a moment near an opened window. The soft sound of rain was consistent and it calmed her, the mist on her face almost felt like a cleansing aura that she desperately needed. She remained as such for a moment before she continued her path; she did not close the window behind her, for a bit of fresh air would do the castle good. The journey to the dungeons would be stuffy and smoky, Cerya knew she would appreciate that air once she reached the stairs.

Cerya nodded in approval as she noticed her guards had finally set up posts outside the door and stairs that led into the dungeons. The door was now open, but it did not seem that the hall was any less stuffy or smoke-filled than it had been when closed, even with the passage of air. The men stood at attention as Cerya passed and she offered them a smile, if only to get their spirits up. She knew they were likely bored and felt unimportant doing such mundane guard duty, so acknowledgement would serve to alleviate the tedium and their spite. Cerya leaned on the wall as she walked down the stairs, her steps unnaturally heavy. For anyone with experience, they would recognize the sound of Cerya's steps as wounded and that she was a prime target to attack. She wished she had brought more than her dagger with her.

When she finally reached the bottom, the first thing she noted was the moistness that permeated the atmosphere, for many of the windows were open in the empty cells. Cerya was not sure how she felt about the windows in prisoner cells. On the negative side, they gave the cells a bit of light; total darkness and silence broken prisoners in ways that a lighted room could not. They could also hear voices far off in the distance, which gave them some sense of o the outdoors and less of total isolation. On the other hand, the windows were far too small to do more than stick an arm out of. They also subtly taunted and mocked the men and their lack of freedom. In some ways, Cerya could imagine a simple torture, with men constantly looking down from the windows at the prisoner during the night, the only thing they could see would be the whites of their eyes, the constant feel of their stare on their backs. The very thought made Cerya uncomfortable and mentally wrote it down for use in the future; perhaps the previous occupants of the castle had used the windows as such, as well.

The Lodissian's room was closed. Again there were no guards, but he seemed to have little desire to escape. The door was unlocked, but the Templar was chained onto the wall and would be unable to leave even if he wanted to. Cerya offhandedly noted that the carcass of the man she killed had been taken away. The male's eyes opened as Cerya entered; he looked broken, ready to collapse from exhaustion. He looked haunted and as if he had not slept since she saw him last. Many of his lighter wounds had been healed: the burn marks on his face were completely gone, in their place were the short beginnings of a beard. His thighs were thighs again and not simple flabs of skin and exposed muscle. He still had large scabs on his hand where Cerya had pierced him and both of his feet were heavily bandaged. His arms, too, were in better condition, Cerya's own magic and the magic from the healers had prevented any permanent damage, but any motion more than a simple gesture would open the skin. As the bandages were thickly coated with blood, Cerya assumed that the stubborn Templar had attempted to move on many occasions only to hurt himself more. His chest was still heavily bruised, but it did not appear as if he had any broken ribs. It had taken three healers almost a full day to get him back into this condition, but he would still not be walk for weeks. Even when his legs healed, the muscles in his arms and legs would have atrophied and he would no longer be as efficient in battle.

They stared in silence at one-another for what seemed an eternity. Cerya felt her chest rise and fall almost in-time with the Templar's, but rather than from exhaustion, Cerya's was from worry and irritation at herself. What was she to say? The man rejected further treatment, yet he was obviously far from healed. He wanted something_. How dare he assume he has any rights?_ Cerya felt her anger grow again, her eyes revealed an intense hate before it slowly diffused. The Templar's gaze revived at Cerya's own fire and he looked less weary and more interested.

Cerya finally whispered, her voice little higher than the pound of rain outside the window: "Why?"

The red-head did not answer. He continued to stare up at her curiously. His look irritated her, for it showed no remorse or pain, both of which she desperately wanted him to feel. She clenched her firsts and turned away, head down and took a breath to calm herself. Cistina would not want her to hate, but that did not mean she had to accept him or any of his horrible actions. She looked back and screamed, her voice echoed down the hall; she and the Templar were both surprised at the show of emotion.

"I want to know why!" Cerya found it difficult to be calm and focused instead on her breaths, drawing them out in attempt to refrain from such outbursts again. She felt like a child, for she had not yelled such in years. In some ways, it was a cathartic release. The man finally replied, his tone dry and sarcastic; unlike their previous meeting, his words were more controlled and no longer were stalled by his gasps.

"You'll have to be more specific. I've a great many skills, but the ability to read minds is not one of them."

Cerya slammed her fist against the thick stone wall. The wall barely made a sound in response other than a quiet "thud" and Cerya only gasped in pain at her own foolishness. She ignored the painful throb and took a step forward, hair falling out of place and in front of her face at her ferocity. "Why did you torture everyone? You killed them all, even after you had the Abuna."

To her horror, the man chuckled. He closed his eyes and his chest and shoulders vibrated in silent laughter. He was stopped by a wince of pain from his wounds and opened his eyes, a sneer on his features and his eyes dark. "I wanted to."

"That is no answer!" Cerya bit back in return, her eyes fixed on his again. Her passion enlivened the man and, to her horror, he seemed to enjoy Cerya's fury. Cerya stepped back from him, eyes wide at the realization that her words had the opposite effect than she intended. She stumbled against the wall and looked to the ceiling. To her left, she heard a soft sigh from the Knight Commander. As she regained control, she slowly looked back over, her gaze calmed. His sneer was gone, as was the dark look, instead replaced with a subdued gaze and an expression she could not quite place.

"No matter what you think of me, Islander, my orders take precedence over my preferences. In truth, the assignment would have been better left to Barbas. I take no enjoyment from death; my sister and I were sent because the High Champion knew the Front would be difficult." Cerya noticed a prolonged hesitation before the word "sister." She did not know if it had been intentional, but she did know that her own words shared the same hesitation when she spoke of Cistina. She felt a flash of empathy that was gone in an instant, but it calmed her fury to only a burn rather than a rage.

Cerya's reply was cautious and she did not remove her gaze from the Lodissian. "You are. . .forthcoming with information." Again he shrugged. Cerya could see even the light motion caused blood to seep through his bandages.

"I have not told you anything you did not already know." He paused, perhaps for his own amusement at the dramatic effect it caused. "Nor will I ever."

Cerya turned away again as the entirety of the situation belatedly dawned on her. She had changed, in recent years. When she had lost her innocence and left the clergy she became ruthless, cruel, even. In her youth, when she was still naive, she would never have imagined she would be in this place. Cerya stood dangerously above a broken man as her chest heaved with hatred, she was apathetic and possibly even took pleasure in his weakness. As Cerya looked upon herself, she realized she was a woman no child wished to become. Even as an adult, she could not believe the monster she was. Cerya suddenly understood why Cistina had left with Denam; she would have done _anything_ to accomplish her goals and used her ends to justify her means. In that, she was no different from the man in front of her. She hated him, and so she should also hate herself.

To know the problem was the first step she could take to fix it. She had taken this man prisoner with no intention but to make his life miserable and cause him pain in her revenge. It was too late to kill him and she certainly could not release him, but she could still use him for information and possibly to barter and deal with Loslorien. At least if she used him, his existence would have some purpose and Cerya's own cruelty would be exposed to none but her. She did not want to make the same mistake again, nor did she want to fall any further into the darkness. She heard Cistina's innocent song at the back of her mind and it sang only of Cerya's hypocrisy. Perhaps, the voice spoke, if they could talk things out there would be less death. Cerya snorted aloud, which shocked the Templar beside her_. Such nonsense_. Cistina's views were fantasy, no more, and the man proved it.

"You say you take no enjoyment from death, but you seemed thoroughly amused as you cut down my men." Cerya's conscience scolded her for the hostile comment. Had she just not told herself to be calm and to learn from him rather than to cause pain? The line of questioning would only provoke anger and she knew it.

Oz blinked. He seemed surprised at the question, but a smile crossed his features. Though it was not ferocious as his earlier one was, the words that followed, paired with such a calm expression, chilled Cerya to her core. "I do not lie. Death is silent, dull, final. My own pleasure comes from their pain, their screams, their begging, their quivers, their cries, their tears, the look in their eyes when-"

"Enough!" Her voice shook. The man continued that twisted smile and Cerya found herself unable to stand any longer. She slid down the wall, Templar to her left. She had not noticed her leg had been on fire the entire time, for her mind had been elsewhere. "You are a foul, disgusting man." Cerya gasped out the harsh words, for they were all that came to mind. Vivid images of her comrades filled her mind and she clutched her head at a migraine's approach.

The man's smile did not leave his features but his words were surprisingly soft and spoken quickly in response, as if he had used Cerya's previous hesitation to think them up. He used a similar tone as when he spoke of his duty. Cerya recognized it now as a sad responsibility, acceptance that he was but a tool, and a stubborn refusal to give in. "I find it hard to believe that a woman such as yourself would hate me simply for the lives I've taken. You, too, seem willing to put your duty ahead of your own wishes and care little for your means."

Cerya's hand dropped to the floor. She wanted to cover her ears and deny him. Instead she simply stared ahead, gaze flat. He had learned of her dilemma and he had barely spoken more than a few dozen words to her. Was she so open and easy to read? She hated that he was right - she should not hate him because in essence, they were not different. Cerya, too, had taken lives in war; she had wiped out much of his small unit and thought nothing of it when she did so. She had cheered when his sister had been murdered, would he have done the same for hers? Should she expect him not to? There was no doubt he was a sick, twisted man, but for his actions in battle she could not judge him. Perhaps, had she been in his place, she would have done the same. In one last attempt at denial, Cerya whispered her response:

"It is not only their lives, but my dreams you destroyed. Dreams of a better country for us all."

"Were my men any different?" Cerya deflated. Oz had found her weakness and exploited it. But he was not yet finished; he would shatter everything she felt to be true apart. "You, and the Front entire, do not have the power to bring forth a better country on your own. Even if you had succeeded, you would have only brought upon chaos and more civil war." Cerya felt Oz's eyes examine her. No longer was his gaze lecherous or cruel like it had been as they battled. His mask had fallen and, in her moment of weakness, Cerya understood the responsibility he held.

A small tinge of empathy would not lead to forgiveness. The man was cruel, but perhaps he was capable of the same understanding as she was. She found it difficult to view him as an inhuman even if his actions were monstrous. In some ways, Cerya conceded, perhaps Cistina was right. If more were willing to talk, even small understandings could occur. Cerya stood up after a moment and regained her self-control; she wiped off the back of her dress where she had sat and looked down at the red-head.

"You never answered my question: Why? The torture, the rape, was it all necessary? Did that fall under your 'orders?'"

"No." His reply lacked hesitation and remorse. Cerya was too exhausted to feel anger, instead without a word she opened the door and walked from the dungeons and away from the man who spoke only the harsh truth.

It was not until she returned to her room and was in a bath the servants had filled that she realized she had not even attempted to get him to be more docile with the Clerics.

* * *

><p>For the first time in over a scale, Cerya had an uninterrupted night of sleep. Her dreams did not haunt her and the visions of death had disappeared. The memories remained, but no longer did she feel obsessed and overwhelmed. It was almost as if their burden had been lifted from her shoulders from a simple conversation. As she had come to understand, so she slowly came to accept. There would be no forgiveness, but perhaps there would be tolerance. The morning sky mocked her, for the rain had stopped and a large fog filled the area outside the castle, parallel to her emotions. It was cool, crisp, and refreshed, but the memory of the previous night's rain had subsided.<p>

The Cleric did not return to her. Cerya could only assume their meeting had calmed Oz, but she did not understand why. To her relief, the day had been slow. With her constant reorganization, Cerya had been able to more efficiently run Phidoch, even to the point where she had times with little to do. In one of such moments, Cerya found herself in the dining hall, a location she rarely had a chance to visit. The servants had been shocked at Cerya's presence, given she was currently the highest ranked member of the Resistance at Phidoch, and had done everything they could to please her. They fawned over her as if she was an important noble; they bowed, they did everything she asked without question, and gave her no more than a few minutes alone without someone to ask if she was well or if there was anything she desired. She thought it was ridiculous, as she did not need such special treatment, but said nothing. Other than the nosy servants who disturbed her she had been able to finish her meal in a rare peace without the worries and stress that came from work.

"Cerya!" Cerya turned around quickly; the voice was familiar and the accent very Bakram. She recognized the face immediately, even if his voice hadn't revealed who it was.

". . .Folcurt." Cerya and Folcurt had not parted on good terms. The man was an excellent soldier and very loyal to his people, but his morals had clashed with her own; he did not share Cerya's ruthless nature. Even as Cerya looked back on herself she hardly felt like the same woman. She was willing to do what was necessary, yes, but as she saw the results of her actions, and began to understand her limitations, she had calmed internally. Denam had changed her for the better, as had Cistina.

Folcurt was out of breath and looked horrible, his eyes bloodshot, stance weary; he could most easily be described as simply tired. His clothes and hair were dirty and unwashed, both of which were out of character for the noble. His normally pleasant and respectful demeanor was replaced by a dark, lost mannerism that Cerya felt was decidedly unfitting. Cistina would hate to see him this way; she had always loved his calm personality and soft disposition.

"Cerya." Folcurt lowered his voice and refused to meet her eyes as he approached. The servants who had approached to once again inquire at her satisfaction immediately withdrew at Cerya's hard glare. She needed to be alone. Cerya felt dread well up inside of her and knew his presence had to be about Cistina. Cerya clutched the table with her hands and swallowed hard in attempt to prepare for the worst.

"Why didn't you come find me?" Cerya stood immediately as anger coursed through her. She stepped out of her chair and took Folcurt by the hand. The food and water on the table were ignored as Cerya dragged Folcurt out of the dining hall and away from the prying eyes of those who would spread nothing but rumors. She ignored the stares and whispers as she passed, her own mind already focused on its destination: the infirmary – there was no other reason for Folcurt to visit her, and she knew that was where he intended to take her. Before she could get beyond the first hallway, Folcurt stopped, and Cerya almost tripped from the jolt. She turned around and glared, but Folcurt's expression remained unchanged. Folcurt had waited long enough to pause so that they remained out of the public eye and could speak at their leisure.

"We did not want to worry you, there's nothing any of us can do. I've been watching over her, but her life is in the hands of the Clerics and the Great Father now. All we can do is pray she comes back safely." There was no question, to either of them, about who "_she_" was. Folcurt took the lead as he continued down the hall and Cerya allowed herself to follow. Folcurt sensed her worry and rushed down the hall at an uncomfortable pace. She openly limped and could feel her wound had opened, but her own body did not matter. Cistina! Cistina was alive! But for how long? She was upset that Folcurt had not come to her earlier, but Cerya knew he had reason to be cautious. Was it not she who told them to never return? Even with the Front destroyed, Cerya had previously made it clear they were exiled. Cerya gasped as her breath ran short from the pain that spiked through her leg, but she did not care, her determination led her on. The walk to the infirmary felt like an eternity when someone so important waited for her.

The halls no longer were lined with the wounded, but healers continued to rush about. The windows were open and a cool breeze ran down the hall, in contrast to the hot, stuffy humidity from when she had last walked the halls – she liked to pretend the time she had demanded healing for Oz did not happen. At the entrance to the infirmary, the Clerics allowed Folcurt and Cerya to enter. Cerya had been unpleasantly surprised to learn the healers recognized Folcurt; had she lost Cistina's trust as well? Though Cistina had cared for her and had helped her at Boed, was their relationship possible to repair? Cerya had chosen her battle over her sister as they had taken the castle. More questions filled Cerya's mind: would Cistina ever laugh and smile as she did before? Would she even open her eyes? Cerya's fears manifested completely as she saw her younger sister in a small room off to the side. Cistina was under a light sheet, her skin was pale and her hair matted. Her lips lacked color and her muscles lacked strength, at each of Cistina's shallow breaths she released a soft painful moan. The rest of her body was covered in large, thick dressing and, even with the constant attention of healers, she bled. It was amazing that so long after battle, Cistina could be in such horrible condition – she was amazed her sister was alive at all. Cerya noticed a particularly thick, bloody wrapping around Cistina's neck and reeled in horror. Her worst fears had come true; Cerya's own obsession for revenge had left Cistina vulnerable and had almost killed her. Cerya fell against the end of the bed, unable to continue. This was her fault. Her arrogance had killed not only the members of the Front, but her own sister! Cerya felt as if she wanted to cry, but no tears fell; she had sworn she would not do so long ago.

"Has she woken?" Cerya was amazed at the strength in her voice. It sounded no different from her normal tone. Even as she sat on the floor, unable to make her body respond, she hid her weakness from others.

"No. She remains asleep; the healers say she is lucky to be alive, even now. Infection spread through her and she almost bled to death on the battlefield." Folcurt stood beside Cistina and looked down in shame. Cerya wanted to yell and demand to know why he hadn't protected her, but she could not, for she continued to ask herself the same question.

Cerya pushed herself off the ground and simply stared at Cistina's weak form. She felt the urge to lean down and hug her, but controlled herself and only kissed her forehead softly. As her hair covered her face she allowed a tear to fall, the small droplet smudged against her sister's skin, but she could not bring herself to wipe it away. As quickly as she entered, Cerya turned away and hobbled back over the exit. What could she ever do to make it up to her sister? How would she face her without having to beg for forgiveness? To her horror, she knew someone who had the answer – even if she despised the thought of having to speak with him.

"Cerya, where are you going?" Folcurt's stunned voice broke the silence. He seemed angry. Cerya ignored the tone and answered as calmly as she could muster.

"I have something I must do." It sounded apathetic, even cruel, to her ears, but she could not let him know she suffered just as much as he, especially after she had said such spiteful words to Cistina. Folcurt was Cistina's life now and she hoped they would have a bright future together; Cerya's own time as her guardian had passed; she did not deserve a place by her sister's side, not yet.

_What am I doing?_

Cerya pushed her way out of the infirmary. Her face was severe and dark and every soldier she passed averted their eyes and did their best to scramble out of her way. Cerya could feel the sticky bandage on her leg but ignored it, her own internal pain much greater than any physical wound. Her steps echoed in time with her breaths and she fled down the empty halls. Cerya did not bother to look out the windows as she had previously, for she knew the mist still covered the area and there was nothing to see; she did not have her mind on what a lovely sight it could be..

The dreary hall was surprisingly familiar to her now, even though she had not visited more than twice, and she inhaled the torch's smoke as if it were natural. The guards did not even question her as she passed through the door and walked into the darkness. The crackle of the torchlight threatened her and she jumped at every sound; she felt almost ashamed at her actions, but could not bring herself to stop.

_Why am I here?_

At the bottom of the stairs Cerya increased her pace down the halls. The wet air filled the chambers, a chill against her bare legs. She slowed her pace as she reached her goal and put on a mask of indifference and confidence. She turned slowly into the room Oz was held and looked down at him, as if she did not care who he was. He stared at her oddly in response. Cerya examined him impassively; she could tell he had been obedient to the healers, as his dressings were clean and no longer soaked through blood. His entire mannerism seemed more alive, yet his expression was confused. He did not meet Cerya's bold eyes.

Cerya walked over and stood above the chained Knight Commander, her posture aloof and her face expressionless and stern. She would show him none of her pain, nor any of her weakness as she her on the last visit. Unlike their meeting before, she was the master and she would not be beg for information. "Tell me about your sister."

Emotions flickered across the Lodissian's face rapidly; first he expressed confusion, then anger, then sadness, and finally settled on a weary loneliness. His entire body looked tense and she could tell it was not a subject he wanted to breach. "Why?"

"You were close to her, were you not? Tell me about her." Cerya did not know shy she demanded such, but perhaps it was because the back of her mind was jealous. He had been so broken, so ruined when his sister had fallen. Cerya loved Cistina, but she could not bring herself to feel such empathy. She would be sad and she would blame herself, but her sister's death would not cause her to attempt suicide. A bond like theirs was special and Cerya found she wanted it. If she must, Cerya would recreate she and Cistina's former closeness; she wanted to feel such happiness once again.

The Templar still looked cautious, but his eyes were distant now. Cerya could tell he was lost in his memories. "You will have to be more specific." He finally murmured. His voice had softened again, that same tone she had heard the day before. It was not vulnerable or weak, but calm; it fit his now-serious demeanor.

Cerya felt like a fool. What _did _she want to know? She refused to say she envied his relationship, but how would she get the information she needed without at least a hint of the subject she desperately wanted to avoid? "Do you miss her?" Cerya finally asked. She did not particularly care if he did, but it would open the way to more intimate questions on the subject.

"Is it not natural to miss a fallen sibling?" His tone was wistful and Cerya stared, her glare demanded elaboration. He sighed in response, a pathetic sound. "If you want the truth, Islander, my soul has been shattered at her loss and I no longer desire to live for myself."

His words were carefully chosen; Cerya analyzed them silently. He had admitted he was lonely, yes, but he felt as if his life was not his own. He would continue his battle for Lodis as it was all he had left. Perhaps, too, he felt honor and pride for his family, but Cerya knew from her own experience that to face them again, if he ever had the chance to, would be difficult. As the Resistance's prisoner, he had no purpose and felt worthless, Cerya could see it ate him alive. She wanted to change the subject, for the more she mused on his struggle the better she understood him. It was easier for her to hate the Templar when he was simply an enemy and not a man.

"Did you argue often?" Cerya applauded herself. Her question was subtle enough that he would not understand its intentions, even if he would be able to tell she had ulterior motives.

To her surprise, Oz laughed softly. "All the time. I often wondered if her entire purpose in my life was to ruin my fun, for it was all she seemed to want to do." His laughter died and once again he fell back into his memories. She wanted to know more, but she supposed it would have to do. She had once been told the closer you were, the more you argued. Perhaps it was true.

Cerya pushed again for answers. She practically stood atop him now. "Do you hate yourself for being unable to protect her?" Cerya cursed her bluntness for she had not meant to ask such a direct question so quickly.

"You're acting strangely today." His eyes explored her. No longer did they hold the subtle annoyance they had when she visited him previously. Instead they held a genuine curiosity. The life had returned to him and Cerya found herself worried at his newfound fire, unsure of what it signified. "Perhaps you've a sister you miss as well?"

Cerya hissed at her transparency, the first emotion other than neutrality she showed him. "No." She countered, too quickly. Oz did not believe it, with good reason. He chuckled again, but it a darker sound, less one of amusement and more of uncontrolled anger.

"Oh? Then why the sudden curiosity about a woman whose death you took pleasure in?" His eyes had taken on that dark tone again and he struggled against the chains that held him. No longer was he respectful or remorseful, but furious and vengeful. It was a transition Cerya had seen in herself before, but she was surprised how immediate and severe it was in the red-head.

"I take no pleasure in death!" She spoke in the same firm tone that gave the illusion she was confident, but it was a struggle to remain calm. The Knight Commander was perceptive enough to realize she hid her emotions.

"You lie." He words were almost a deep growl and though Cerya did not take a step back, she wanted to. "I remember clearly your smile and my desire to tear it from your face! Perhaps your pleasure was simply product of circumstance, but nonetheless you felt satisfaction and happiness that Ozma died. Yet you condemn me for the same actions!"

"I am aware of my hypocrisy!" Cerya snapped; anger finally graced her features and body. The more she spoke with him, the more judgmental and immature she saw herself. She gasped lightly and locked eyes with the man, who would not give into her. They glared at one another until Cerya conceded defeat and lowered her gaze. ". . .That is why I am here."

"And I am to be sympathetic to your plight? Surely you jest?" His mask had returned. No longer did he have the vulnerable look he had earlier; he attacked her out of necessity to protect himself and, in truth, she understood the reason why he did so and did not hold it against him.

"I don't want your sympathy." Cerya's voice was calm, but internally she found herself all the more angered. She knew better than to lose the control, for to do so would be to allow the man victory. He wanted to provoke a reaction from and she refused to allow him to do so.

His voice was apathetic in response. "Then leave me in peace, or kill me. Do not keep me here simply because you enjoy my torment." Cerya cringed at his mockery. She looked back up, eyebrows creased together as she suddenly realized how absurd the situation was. _Her _prisoner not only ordered her around, but used Cerya's good-will against her. He had quickly realized she no longer felt the urge to kill him and wanted to see how much pleasure he could extract from his games. But Cerya would not have it; she, too, had learned how he played his game and she could exploit it in the same way he did.

Cerya calmed her entire body with a breath and smiled. Oz could sense the danger in the smile, she could tell. Her words took on a condescending tone. "Stop being such a child. You whine, you mope, you do nothing but complain. You speak loudly, but your words lack meaning and purpose; they exist solely to get a reaction. 'Oh, I'm wounded, it hurts!'" Cerya pointed to her leg where Oz had stabbed her in the battle to take Phidoch to indicate their contrast. "I would not be surprised if the only thing you seek is attention! Have you no mind of your own?"

Cerya was amazed at his short-sightedness. Denam was willing to forgive and he would not tolerate Oz in the castle for much longer. Cerya did not know if Denam would release him, but at the very least he would put him, chained, into a boat to be returned to Lodis. If only he would be agreeable, the red-head had a chance to return to where he wanted to be, yet all he did was squander it. It frustrated her that he did not grasp at the opportunity. She wondered if the idea of a captor treating their prisoner well was entirely foreign to him.

Lost in her thoughts, Cerya finally looked back down to the Templar. His eyes had lost their intensity and instead his face held an odd look that she couldn't describe. He had given her the look once before, but it had been fleeting, this time it remained. Cerya met his eyes and he immediately looked away. _Was that shame? _After a moment, he started to laugh, but it wasn't cruel as before, rather a sardonic sound.

"Oh, and what would you have me do? How would you have me act?"

For a moment Cerya continued to stare at him and considered, perhaps, that he understood a good deal more than she gave him credit for. "_I _want you to do nothing. Make the decision for yourself." After a moment, she turned away and walked from the room with her feigned confidence. Despite her anger, she had not allowed herself to show insecurity or weakness and was proud of herself for it. As soon as she exited the dungeons, she collapsed on the stairs as her leg spasmed from over-exertion. The woman sat there for a quarter of an hour as she pondered Oz's words and her mistakes.

Sometimes the shortest conversations were also the most meaningful.

* * *

><p><em>Events out of control. Return is delayed, we head to the Hagia.<br>Olivya sends her regards._

Cerya read the brief encoded message over and over as she focused on the last line. _Olivya. _How long had it been since she last saw her sister? She was only slightly younger than Cistina, but even as children they had been vastly different. Cerya was loathe to admit it, but her youngest sister had a strength all of the others lacked; she had remained with their father when the rest had lost faith. Cerya was not sure what her sister's presence with Denam meant, other than that he had made an alliance with the Order; she worried more about the trip to the Hagia. She had her own hands full with handling the Resistance and she knew she should not worry over Denam's conflicts.

In her temporary replacement of Denam, Cerya had taken great cares to increase Resistance mobility and efficiency. The Resistance leadership had failed even before Denam took control and they lacked unity. Denam gave them unity, but it was impossible to lead both the home front and the armies in field at the same time - no leader could. Resistance numbers rapidly increased and Cerya had determined training regimens, new troop placement, guards and envoys or cities under their control, as well as more miscellaneous jobs such as information gathering and resource procurement. It was difficult, but unlike her first days on the assignment, she learned to better manage her time and no longer wanted to collapse after a day's work. Her main fear, of course, was that Denam would be so pleased with her work that she would never see the field again.

Her secondary fear just so happened to be the woman in front of her.

"The man refuses to eat and drink, Captain. He demands to see you."

Cerya almost wanted to simply tell the healer to let Oz kill himself, but she knew she would not allow it. Even if she did, her conscience would get the better of her and she would walk down to the dungeon later. With a soft sigh she nodded the Cleric and attempted to dismiss her. The Cleric continued to stand in front of her, much to Cerya's confusion. Had she missed something?

The Cleric not-so-subtly looked down at Cerya's bandage. Cerya had done her best to take care of it, despite a few episodes of over-exertion, and she felt it would heal nicely in time. The Cleric disagreed and continued the stern stare until Cerya, once again, relented. The Cleric smiled and brought her medicinal bag over. She kneeled and quickly unwrapped Cerya's bandage. Cerya watched the woman examined her wound, and mixture of expressions over her face. She saw worry, relief, and annoyance all cross the woman's features as she rubbed Cerya's leg down with an alcohol-dipped rag. Cerya's deep cut still remained large on the outside, but it had healed well internally. Cerya barely winced at all, for she had become used to the pain, her own unassisted stride caused more than the light pressure from the Cleric. The woman wiped her own hands in the alcohol to wash them and placed them atop the red gouge. Her Light magic poured into the wound; its tingle was not quite pleasant, but it did not feel uncomfortable, either. This healer was not very skilled but, unlike the others who had seen to her, she was not tired. Her work was efficient and thorough and Cerya could almost feel the recovered flesh. Her recovery process had been slow but steady and she was grateful to have magic at all, for without it she would likely overwork herself.

After she was done, the Cleric re-wrapped the wound and gave Cerya a warm smile. Cerya returned it half-heartedly and turned back to the table. She had very few papers to finish and most were complaints from the city guard about petty thieves and criminals. More dangerous ones, such as murderers and abusers, would remain imprisoned within the city; only the most dangerous were sent into Phidoch's dungeons or were killed outright. Oz still remained her only prisoner, as she did not have command over the city guard.

Cistina had not awakened. After the first visit, Cerya had been unable to return, but every day she asked of her. Now that she knew where her sister remained, she had been able to obtain frequent updates on her condition, which slowly seemed to improve. She had not seen Folcurt again since the day she left him, but nor did she wish to after her strange exit. She did not know what to say to him and so she said nothing at all. Cerya stalked through the halls; it did not hurt to walk as much as it had previously, but she still had to hide her winces. She had started to practice when alone in her room, the spear's weight pleasant again in her hands, even though she often had to massage her leg afterward.

The halls were quiet and clean; Cerya had started to think of them as familiar, even though she had not been in Phidoch for as long as many of the inhabitants. She was well respected by most, but she had encountered hostility from some of the citizens of the city. She ignored them, for what right did they have to judge her? For a time Cerya had worried that other cities would have reacted with hostility to the Resistance presence as well, but her shadows assured her that it was only Phidoch; the citizens had rejected Rhime's refugees, as well, and were remarkably xenophobic.

The dungeon's open windows made the lower floor remarkably cool. The breeze on her legs made her shiver; her replacement boots had not yet arrived, so she still had to wear shorter shoes that exposed her wrapping. Unlike her previous meetings with the uncooperative prisoner, she did not wear her battle dress. The Bakram woman scolded herself for her foolishness; her prisoner was far too dangerous to approach unarmed, yet she chose to do so anyway. It was too late to return and change, but Cerya felt he would not attempt harm her; why would he risk his life to demand her visit if he wanted to kill her? She still carried her dagger at her waist, as she always did, so if necessary she was capable of self-defense. Cerya knew better than to get too close, at any rate.

Color had returned to her prisoner's features and, apparently, the Clerics were quite fond of him. They had brushed his hair and groomed him and he had new trousers. He looked to have recently bathed, as dried crusts of blood did not cover his body. Cerya frowned at his clean, pleased look. He was a prisoner, not a guest! The young women would be punished for their actions later. No matter his flowery, flattering words, the Lodissian was not to have more than food, water, and healing without her clearance. Perhaps she would even declare a policy of "males only" when it came to his healers if the women could not resist him. She had not visited him for days; other than his cleaned look, his condition was much improved and only the deepest of the wound remained. Cerya was almost jealous, had she the attention of all of the healers, her leg would no longer be bloody and bandaged. Instead she stubbornly refused them and went only when necessary. As she judged his appearance, she noted that perhaps Oz no longer needed his healers as often; she made a mental note to reschedule how often they visited.

The Templar seemed confused at her formal, but non-battle, appearance and his eyes darted up and down her body. Cerya was not comfortable in the flowing dresses many women her age would wear, nor did she feel it appropriate for the Captain of an army and steward of Phidoch, and had instead chosen to wear the pants of a man and a loose shirt with long sleeves that she had recently ordered from town. Cerya cleared her throat, ready to demand to know what he wanted, but Oz spoke at the same time.

"I thought on what you said."  
>"Is there a point to this?"<p>

They met each other's eyes, Cerya's filled with light annoyance and Oz's an odd confidence. He ignored Cerya's rude query and continued, almost in a self-satisfied manner.

"'Was it necessary?' you asked." Cerya nodded and vaguely recalled such, but it had not been the last time they had spoken. She had worries on her mind and the question, and her care for an answer, had faded into a blur; even her once-fiery hatred had dulled as she moved on. Cistina and the Resistance filled her mind now. "Yes, yes it was necessary."

"'Tis what you said in the first place." Cerya finally remembered the conversation, it had been about the torture and rape of the Liberation Front. Again, the Knight Commander did not react and continued.

"The cries define me. I discovered something, _on my own_, that I enjoy doing. I will continue to do it." Oz put emphasis on his central words. She knew he referred to their last conversation, where she had told him to think for himself, but why did he bother to tell her he chose to do such? Did Oz want her approval? The entire idea of it was absurd and Cerya scoffed it off, but somehow she felt as if she missed something. She took her eyes off of Oz, a dangerous move, she knew - _what if the healers had given him a weapon?_ - and looked up through the small window. Cerya could not see what was beyond, but anything was better than the prison's drab walls or the Lodissian. She quickly went over her memories of the man, of his words and reactions to find any hidden meaning in his statement. She was frustrated when she found none, but she did notice an inconsistency.

"The way I remember it," Cerya stated factually as she looked back down to the now-curious Oz. "when we battled, it was quite the opposite. You are not particularly resilient, rather, you do not tolerate pain well at all."

Oz's curiosity turned into caution, as if worried he would give too much away. "Enjoying someone else's pain does not make me tolerant of my own."

Cerya continued her push. She did not know her goal, nor did she know if she would ever find an answer, but she found she could not stop. Speaking with the man brought her a sense of closure. "If it hurts you, why do it to others?"

"Because I enjoy it. Need I another reason?"

"By that justification, you should take no issue to my pleasure at your sister's death." Cerya hated to admit the truth, but she gave in. The female Templar's death had given her a sense of satisfaction and hope, and the male's reaction to it had exhilarated her. But soon after, once Oz had pointed out her inconsistency, Cerya mused on the subject. It had taken time, but Cerya had finally admitted to herself that personal grudges had no place in war, for they only caused more damage. Cerya resolved to never fight for revenge again - no matter how her hatred and disgust overwhelmed her. Perhaps, in some ways, Cistina and Denam had been correct, as hesitant as she was to admit it.

Oz did not answer her. He had turned his face away and no longer held the pleasant, satisfied smile it had before. His eyes were downcast and they stared at the floor. He looked almost like a child who had been caught by his mother and was being punished. He remained that way for some time, the only sound he made were soft, almost shaky, breaths. Perhaps Cerya had gotten through to him, or perhaps she had only hurt him more when she spoke of how his own decision surrounded him with the hypocrisy he claimed not to have. As he remained silent, not acknowledging Cerya's presence, she found herself impatient. He had demanded she come to him and had spoke with such utter confidence, only to turn her away as he thought on her words. She did not have all day to bow to his petty whims. After a moment more, she turned to take a step back towards the door, before he finally spoke again, his words little more than a whisper. His tone was almost timid; the admission was very difficult.

". . .I have never been much for thought. 'Tis how I was raised. A commander who thinks for oneself is dangerous. 'Show loyalty to one's family, country, and people, and care nothing but for results.' As long as the ends are met, any means are acceptable." In his bindings, Oz clenched his fists. His eyes, too, pressed close and he had a pained grimace on his features. She had never expected to see such emotion from the man. "I am not going to stop." His words were confident and firm, but the effect was ruined by his pained expression. "People do not change so easily, Islander. Logic does not dictate my emotions. I can admit you are correct, but I cannot stop. It's addictive, euphoria. I . ."

He trailed off and, from the way he stared at her, he had no intention to continue.

Cerya sighed, exasperated at his stubbornness. Power had ruined more than one man. Her own father had fallen under its sway. "Now I understand what you sister felt. You're impossible."

"Ozma." His gaze hardened stubbornly as he said it, it was his turn to sound annoyed - even offended. Cerya gave him a questioning look. "Her name was Ozma. Not 'your sister.'"

Cerya shook her head and turned again, she cared little for his sister's name, even if she found his admission to be curious. As if in desperation, Oz spoke. Cerya could hardly believe he wanted her to stay with him. "Tell me about your sister. Did you get into an argument?"

Alarmed, Cerya turned back around. She was ready to stalk over to him, dagger in hand, until she remembered she had unintentionally revealed she had siblings of her own in their last meeting. Cerya mused on the subject for a moment. What did he want with her sisters? Would he try and get revenge on them? Perhaps, Philaha forbid, he was simply curious and wanted to talk about anything that would make Cerya stay with him longer?

"Yes. . .you could say that." Cerya gave in and turned back around. She took a few steps in and leaned against the wall to get the weight off of her leg. Oz looked at her expectantly. "Which do you want to know about? I have three sisters."

"All of them." His mood had brightened, but she could not tell if he genuinely was interested or not. "You are Bakram?"

Cerya nodded. "Yes. I was born in Heim. I am the eldest of my sisters, but I've not spoken with two of them for years. The one I was upset about - " Cerya stopped herself as she realized how freely she spoke – so impassioned she was about her family that she temporarily forgot that her audience was a prisoner, not a friend. Oz continued his stare; she was amazed at how persuading he could be with the simple glance. Or perhaps it was just Cerya's mind playing tricks; she had wanted to speak to someone about her sisters for some time. Cerya even quietly admitted that one reason why she spoke so openly was because he was the only one she was acquainted with who had never met any of her relatives, but also could relate to her own experiences. "My sister was direly wounded in our battle to take the castle." She almost expected a flash of empathy from the Lodissian, but did not receive it. It seemed she did not know him as well as she thought. "She remains comatose. I spoke harshly to her and never apologized. I was so intent on you in-battle that I did not protect her. If she dies, it is my fault."

"We are alike in this." Oz's voice was quiet, almost submissive to Cerya. It surprised her, for it seemed out of place. Curious, Cerya opened her mouth to speak, but Oz silenced her with his own explanation. "Had I focused on defense rather than partake in my own revenge, my sister would still live." His own vengeance, she assumed, was for his defeat at Boed. Cerya met his eyes in a silent admission that, no matter how they conflicted or hated each other, they were not so different after all. She almost felt dirty as she did so.

"Are they all like you?" Oz quickly changed the subject, for which Cerya was thankful.

"No, and thank Philaha for that." Cerya smiled lightly. "I would not want them to be like me." Oz seemed to disagree, but did not vocalize it. Cerya was surprised at how easily he allowed her to read his body language  
>"My younger sister - second in age to me - I've not spoken to or heard from her in years. She broke all ties, more so than I did." Cerya did not mention the reasons why their family had been torn apart. It was not his business.<br>"The next was once a member of the Front and served under me. We had a disagreement on how to best serve our people and she left. She serves Denam now." Cerya's tone was an odd mixture of spite and sadness at the words. In Denam, Cistina had found shared ideals and the future she desired. Cerya had failed Cistina in every way.  
>"My youngest is loyal to our family; she is a ranked Cleric in the Order of Philaha. She follows in father's footsteps" Cerya had never understood Olivya's ability to remain passive. Even when Cerya had served the Order, she had traveled as a missionary. She was not the type to wait in one place as life passed her by. Though, to her it seemed that Olivya had come to the same conclusion, if Denam's letter implied what she assumed it did.<p>

Oz seemed to muse for a moment. "You lived together in Heim?"

"No. Politics tore me from my home. As you are aware, I am no friend of Brantyn's." Again, Cerya did not speak more than was necessary. Oz seemed to want to know more, but she had told him more than enough of her past. That was certainly enough of that. "Is your curiosity sated?" Cerya pushed herself off the wall and gaveOz a firm look that said she would reveal no more on the subject. Her mood had turned foul at the memories and any more discussion would cause her to lash out in anger. Speaking of her family had not brought upon the relief that had intended, only more anger and sadness.

"For now, I suppose. Thank you for your time, Cerya." She turned away without a word and did not realize he had called her by her name until she was halfway up the stairs. Their meetings had only become stranger.

* * *

><p>"I told you to deal with him."<p>

Denam had changed. Cerya was unsure of what events had passed after he left Phidoch, but in demeanor he was a different person. He had a sad look, as if he had matured - Cerya might well compare it to the difference between she and Cistina. The idealism was almost gone, replaced with what seemed to be. . .calmness? To Cerya it appeared he had been broken and then rebuilt from the ground up, stronger than ever. He was a true leader now. She had accepted he no longer played hero when she joined the Resistance, but then Denam had been a boy. Now he was a man. Something had changed him drastically in Scale he had been gone.

"I did." Cerya started cautiously, aware that her tone bordered on insolence. "No longer does he cause dissent within the troops." She neglected to mention his demands for comfort, cleanliness, and even Cerya's presence at one point. Absently, she wondered why she defended him. "What would you have me do, Commander? Certainly you did not want to kill him." Denam watched her closely and said nothing. Had he really wanted her to kill Oz? She doubted it; he was not the type to mercilessly wish for someone's death. Cerya decided it had to do with whatever had happened while he was gone. Denam finally relented.

"You're right. Very well, I will speak to him. Come, Cerya." Denam looked down to his desk as if contemplating, before he finally searched one of the drawers. After a short moment of scrounging Denam lifted out a small pouch that Cerya could only imagine were the keys to their prisoner's binding. Whether it meant Denam meant to release him, or kill him, she did not know. Denam pushed beside her and motioned her to follow him out of the room.

Denam had returned the night previous, long after most were asleep. The entire castle had been roused by his return, as the troops were rowdy and happy to be back to safety. Cerya had been called in immediately and had given Denam a report on the status of the Resistance, both in troops and finances. At the time, he had seemed pleased at Cerya's support and assistance and approved of many of the changes and orders she gave. As her leg was almost completely healed, she expected to be allowed to return to the field, but when Cerya had mentioned it, Denam had nodded absently, as if not particularly paying attention. He seemed to hide something.

Their walk through the hall was enthusiastic, to say the least. Denam was much more popular than Cerya and the newly returned soldiers smiled brightly and attempted to get the young man's attention as they passed. Cerya was unused to being seen in a position under someone and felt a bit uncomfortable, especially given some of the soldiers ignored her completely. At one point Denam and Cerya had almost been mobbed until Denam finally pushed his way through. To see him as such, it was obvious to Cerya why he had succeeded where she had failed. She had been firm, harsh, even cruel at times. It had been her goals the Front followed, not her. In direct contrast, Denam was well loved for his goals, his dreams, and his means. There were times that, even though she had long been on her own, she realized just how much she needed to learn.

To Cerya's relief, Oz did not have the clean, groomed look about him. It seems her punishment of the healers had produced results and no longer was he pampered. The Templar's look had lightened as she entered, but turned dark immediately as he saw Denam behind her. He was completely healed now, but Cerya knew he would need some work to get back into the physical condition he had been. Oz and Denam stared at each other; the air between them could almost be cut with her dagger. Denam's facade of apathy and calmness almost fell completely and Oz looked ready to struggle against his chains in attempt to attack Denam. Cerya was tempted to politely excuse herself before events spiraled out of her control.

"You." Oz hissed. It was the same tone she remembered he used when his sis-Ozma, Cerya corrected herself, had died. It was dark, almost maniacal. In some ways, Cerya could not blame him, she would feel the same anger if someone had killed her sisters. But now was not the time, she knew, and angering Denam would not be the way to get on his good side. Cerya gave Oz a firm glare and, to her great surprise, Oz relented. His eyes still burned but his body had released its tense anger, as if he understood her intention. Denam, too, noticed the silent exchange and gave Cerya a long look that silently calculated the meaning of the red-head's response. She returned it Denam's look with the full knowledge that she had done nothing wrong.

"Sir Oz." Cerya sensed hesitation in Denam's voice. She also sensed anger, which was in firm contrast to the calm control he exuded earlier. "You are being held in accordance to your actions against our people, which go beyond acceptable behavior in war. Have you no defense?"

"So you are holding me for acting as any soldier would? Are all commoners such fools?" Cerya glared at the Templar, but it unfortunately did not have the calming effect a second time.

"To kill for defense of one's homeland I can accept, but Lodis and its actions are hostile and have gone beyond the 'emissary' they once claimed to be. Lanselot Tartaros has created a faction that has divided our people even further and attempts to control us. We will not submit to your rule." Oz snorted at that and Cerya clenched her fists in response to the elder male's aloofness. She completely agreed with Denam; the Lodissians should leave and leave the country to fix its own problems.

"So you hold the pet accountable for the owner's actions?"

"Your actions went far beyond acceptable, even for your country's twisted sense of honor!" Denam finally snapped. Oz seemed remarkably satisfied to have finally provoked a response from the calm Denam. Cerya turned away, not sure what to say, she felt as if she had already had the same discussion with the imprisoned Templar and had gotten no further than Denam.

"Calm, Denam." A voice from the doorway, quiet, almost submissive, sounded. The entire room fell silent and turned to look, as if the world mocked them, even the voices and birds from outside the window no longer called out. Cerya's mouth dropped open and she had to resist the urge to run over to the woman she knew immediately to be Olivya. Olivya had grown so much, but at the same time she had not changed at all. She still retained the calmness and her warm expression, but her body was that of a woman's now. Her blue robe was marked with adorations that signified her rank in the order of Philaha. She had her hands grasped in front of her as she walked in, seemingly oblivious to the tension - or perhaps she simply wanted to dispel it. Cerya shook with her emotions but controlled herself. Olivya had still not looked to her, instead she put her small hand onto Denam's shoulder. "Release your hatred, your father would not want you swallowed by it."

Denam's eyes immediately fell to the floor. The exchange was curious and confused not only Oz, but Cerya as well. She examined Denam, who breathed in quietly before he looked back up. Cerya gave the Lodissian another glare that silently demanded his obedience; he did not need it, the Templar understood it was a pivotal moment just as much as Cerya did.

"Forgiveness is not easy." Denam finally looked up, but it was to Olivya before he turned back to the prisoner. "You killed my father." Cerya held back a gasp, the Abuna had been killed after he had been taken from the Front? Perhaps Cerya had underestimated the severity of Denam's emotional situation.

"You killed my sister." Oz returned. Cerya cringed when she saw the beginnings of another verbal assault. "You've dishonored my family, mocked my country, imprisoned me without reason, and had me tortured!"

"You destroyed Golyat and manipulated my sister!" Denam snapped back. Both men acted as if they were children. Olivya looked ready to step in, but Cerya knew Olivya would not be able to solve this. The _boys _needed a firm hand and that was something Olivya could not give.

"Enough, both of you." She used her calmest, most formal tone, both men immediately turned their attention to her. "You've both committed great crimes against each other and yelling will not solve them." Cerya was surprised that she, above all people, was acting the peacekeeper. "The past cannot be undone. We must build the future over it."

Cerya could hardly believe her blatant hypocrisy; she spoke words that, at one point, she would not have believed true at all. It was she who had been overwhelmed with vengeance - but because of her vengeance she had only suffered the loss of Cistina. Before then, she had lived almost entirely to rebuild the past; her time in the Front had been solely to turn country around what it had once been, but she had failed. Now Cerya saw a new future, a brighter future, where the past simply remained the past; it did not need to dictate their future. She wished she had seen it earlier, for she would not have torn her family apart if she had. In her mistakes, she had the knowledge that could pave the way for Denam before he took a road he, too, regretted. Denam had lost his sister, but he still had a chance to regain her; Cerya would not let him stop until he found her.

Olivya stared at her oddly, her gaze a mixture of confusion and curiosity as she, too, recognized how strange the words sounded from Cerya's lips. Cerya attempted to meet her sister's eyes, only to receive a smile in return. Cerya felt her own mouth tug into a soft smile as well before she turned back to the men, who both appeared surprisingly humbled. Even the fiery Oz's glow had diminished as he mused on her words; she would not have expected it from him.

"I will not ask forgiveness, nor will I offer mine." Denam finally breathed out. "Instead I offer a chance for redemption." The others in the room were confused, but Denam elaborated. "I will not ask you to betray your country, instead I simply ask that you see us as people, not _tools_ or_ sheep _to be herded about. We 'rabble' are no different from you; I hope that, once you understand us, you will rethink the means to your end."

Oz looked horrified at the thought and, in truth, Cerya could hardly blame him. Denam's words were revolutionary and likely conflicted with everything Oz had ever been taught. Cerya watched his response, but was surprised to see that the Lodissian examined her. His eyes seemed conflicted as he met hers and held an odd, fleeting emotion that Cerya could not recognize. She unintentionally took a step back in response. The man confused her more by the day, why did it matter to him what she thought?

"I understand." Cerya was shocked at his response. It almost felt too easy, as if he plotted against them.

"But what will we do with him?" Cerya asked cautiously. Neither she nor Denam wanted a repeat of what had happened before, with the flogging.

Denam mused for a moment, but to both their surprise, Oz spoke up. "She could watch me." Oz motioned with his head towards Cerya, since his arms were chained. Cerya could hardly believe what she had heard! "She is in your trust and she has reason to hate me, just as you do." Cerya clenched her fists; _what did he plan_? She found his words remarkably suspicious and desperately sought the meaning behind them. Denam did not seem to agree, instead he looked at Cerya for a moment before he nodded. He opened up a small pouch he had pulled from his desk and picked out a key. Cerya did not want to play whatever game the Lodissian plotted.

"Cerya, do not take your eyes off of him. He is not to leave your presence. Arm yourself at all times; do not hesitate to use force, but I'd rather it not come to that." Denam spoke with finality and dropped the key into Cerya's hand. She almost wanted to throw it back. Denam's tone brooked no denial and while she had every intention to snap at her commander's foolishness, she noticed the warm, hopeful look on Olivya's face. It reminded her far too much of Cistina's own. So her sister sided with Denam, had she? Cerya sighed in submission and lowered her head. She owed it to her family to learn a bit more about forgiveness herself, it seemed. She grasped the keys tightly only to be given a half-smile by Denam, who patted her back and quickly walked from the room as if he never wanted to see the Knight Commander again. Before Olivya could follow, Cerya grasped her hand. For a moment they stood there, until Olivya gently removed her hand and spoke, her face no longer showed its smile, instead replaced by a subdued and somber expression.

"Cerya, I. . .we. . .Come to the dinner hall tonight, 7 hours past midday. We've much to speak of."

Cerya nodded and released her sister's hand. She turned back to the Lodissian prisoner; duty, once again, had torn her from her family, even if only temporarily. As the footsteps of Olivya and Denam disappeared into the distance, Cerya and Oz's eyes met; neither moved. "I can hardly believe this." Cerya murmured to herself as she cautiously approached the man. She grasped the hilt of her dagger on her belt as she kneeled, her breaths ragged from her nervousness. Oz kept his distance as well as he could with Cerya beside him and attempted to appear obedient and as if he was not a threat. He seemed to have something on his mind, but also did not wish to seem obtrusive.

"I wanted to kill him." Cerya paused and released the chain at the revelation. Oz shook his head at her reaction. "Worry not. I find myself alarmingly calm, as if the desire for revenge has temporarily been sated. I understand now how you feel." Cerya did not appreciate his assumption, but she could not deny he spoke the truth. She no longer loathed him, for the hatred had brought only more pain.

"Perhaps you two are more alike than you admit." Cerya offered. She had no explanation for Oz's change in feelings. Cerya slowly approached him again and unlocked one of his cuffs. He immediately moved his arm about, and placed the hand onto Cerya's leg. She swallowed and attempted to ignore it, but it distracted her as she lightly fumbled with the lock.

"No." His tone was firm "Had it been anyone else I would not have agreed. You are persuasive; only Ozma has made me think on my actions such before." Cerya was not sure what she thought about being compared to his sister. As she released the lock, Cerya took out her dagger and held it to his throat. He was submissive and did not attempt to struggle; Cerya offered her assistance to help him stand. His legs wobbled a bit, for he hadn't stood in some time. The healing magic had prevented complete atrophy, but the Lodissian would not run down the halls for some time - or ever, if she had her way. Cerya glanced at the former prisoner; she needed to find him some clothing and a proper place to bathe and groom himself. He certainly would not do so in her room.

Their pace was slow as they walked through the dungeons and up the stairs. Oz seemed to know where he was going, but she did not let him lead. She was tempted to flick her dagger in subtle threat, but she knew it would likely irritate both of them if she did so and instead remained close. It became obvious quickly that Oz was not as kind to others as he was to Cerya. They received odd looks and, while Cerya ignored them, her prisoner met their gazes with a hard, even hateful look. It was enough to turn most away. "What do you plan?" Cerya asked finally.

To her surprise, the Knight Commander seemed offended. "Do I need some ulterior motive?"

"You would not have agreed so easily without one." was her skeptical response. All Oz did was chuckle.

"I swear upon my honor that I've no intention of harming you."He seemed both quite serious and incredibly playful at the same time.

"It is not me that I worry for."

The rest of their walk was silent. As they entered the great hall, Cerya immediately called over one of the servants. She ordered the woman to bring a small shaving blade - Cerya would confiscate it whenever Oz would not use it, a comb, and other amenities for the "guest" that was to stay in her room. After some thought, she also ordered the servants bring her bathwater; she _supposed _sharing her bath would be acceptable as long as she changed the water after he used it. It would certainly be less hassle than to bring in a second tub and clutter her small chambers up. The servant ran off after her dismissal and she continued along the halls. One or two of the guards seemed to recognize the Knight Commander, but she could almost see their minds curl around the idea, as they knew that certainly one of their Captains would not allow such a dangerous person to walk at her side. Cerya desperately wished they were correct, but she was a greater fool than they.

As they arrived, Cerya pushed Oz into her room. Cerya removed her shoes quickly and noted Oz did not have any of his own. To her pleasure, the servants were already filling her bathtub with water, but still had some time to go until it was completed. The cool air from the hallways made its way from the open door into her stuffy room at the servant's continued presence. Oz examined Cerya's room in acknowledgement that it would be his home for some time, but she ignored him. Instead, Cerya immediately walked over to her spear, which leaned gently on the wall in her bed chamber, and held it somewhat defensively. Oz shrugged at the motion and sat down at one of the chairs by her table. He then proceeded to pour himself a glass of the wine that was on her table. Cerya's eyes widened at the absurdity of the situation; the man she would have given anything to have dead sat at _her_ table and drank _her _wine without even asking her approval! After a sip, he poured a second glass and motioned for Cerya to sit across from him. Cerya didn't move. No matter how familiar now was and comfortable he looked, Cerya knew Oz was incredibly dangerous. It would be a disservice to the memory of the Front to sit across from him and jovially drink wine. He seemed a bit disappointed at her reaction, but continued the soft sips until the servants declared the bath was filled.

"Go. You may use my wash." Cerya motioned to her bath chamber to the side of her room. Oz placed his goblet down in response, stood up, and stretched energetically, as if pleased to finally be able to move on his own. He nodded to her and walked towards her bath chambers already untying his dirty trousers. Cerya blushed and looked away; despite having given up religion, she still found some of the morals to still be ingrained within her. She remained in her defensive stance for a time until she heard Oz slip into the water before she walked over to the table by the window. Outside, she noted the weather to be bright and pleasant, if a bit warm; the bright sun shined into her room and illuminated the small area that housed the table. She leaned her spear on the wall nearby and sat down across from where the male had previously been. The goblet the Templar had poured for her was still full; Cerya sipped at it without thought until she heard a knock at the door, some quarter of an hour later.

"I'm coming." Cerya called. Oz made an annoyed grunt at the disturbance but, as far as she could tell, did not get out from his bath. She opened the door cautiously and saw two people outside. One was obviously a servant, who held a small package out for her, the second was a man she did not know well, but had encountered on various occasions. "Yes? Is there something you need?" Hobyrim bowed in the direction of the servant and thanked him quietly. The servant seemed a bit disturbed by Hobyrim's seemingly abnormal intuition and quickly handed Cerya a small bag. A glance at the contents told her it contained the items she had called for on their way back to her room. Cerya marveled at their efficiency. Cerya tipped the servant with a few coins and looked over to Hobyrim, who had remained silent and respectful. He, too, held a package.

"Would you like to come in?" Cerya asked the male. He shook his head, his expression somber. With almost instinctual curiosity, Cerya looked him up and down, as it was the first time she had ever been close to him outside of battle. He wore the same torn robes he always did, but they appeared to have recently been washed. His hair was brushed back almost lazily and his face unshaved.

"You are the one who cares for Oz." It was not a question. Hobyrim's face was expressionless and almost terrifyingly impassive. She understood that he did not visually show emotions in his blindness, but perhaps if he did, he would be easier to approach.

"That's not exactly how I would put it, but yes, he has been assigned to me. Is there a problem?" Cerya relaxed against the doorway.

"Not exactly." was his enigmatic response. Cerya frowned.

"How did you know that I take care of him? Oz was released into my care little more than an hour ago."

To her surprise, Hobyrim blushed faintly. He seemed to carefully gauge his words. "Many of the servants concluded that you were not, ah, _interested_ in males, so when you appeared walking through the halls with one, it caused quite a stir." Cerya was speechless. They thought _what _of her? "I happened to recognize the description of your companion. He was a prisoner; I assumed Denam had released him given his. . .circumstances." Cerya did not understand the last comment; her stay in Phidoch left her without knowledge of what Denam had encountered beyond what his letters spoke.

"You assumed correctly." Cerya nodded; even though she knew the man could not see her, it was likely he could feel her motions. If he was unable to read her subtle body language he would have been unable to continue his profession as a Swordmaster.

"Please, give him this." Hobyrim held out the small package. It was wrapped in a red cloth and was very small. He treated it as if it were the most important item he owned. Cerya, with more than a little discomfort, took the package and examined it. She could not tell its contents and would not risk a squeeze for fear it might damage whatever small treasures were inside. "Please tell him that I gave Ozma the proper rites and sent her body back to their family."

Cerya was speechless. Hobyrim had been the one to kill Ozma, had he not? Cerya's mind flashed over the battle, the memories had faded other than the most powerful ones, but yes, she remembered how odd the situation had been. Hobyrim had been gentle with her dead body, even though it had been his sword that pierced her throat.

"But-" Cerya spoke, but it was only to the wind. Hobyrim had slowly started back to his room without a word. She wanted to call down to him, but somehow it felt inappropriate, or even rude. Instead, she closed the door and walked back over to the table, where her goblet sat. She placed Hobyrim's small package down and called back to her "guest:"

"Sir Oz." it was the first time she had spoken his name, it felt odd. "The servants have brought your items. I am going to bring them in." Oz made a small "meh" in reply and Cerya took it as acquiescence. She kept her face down as she walked into the way bathroom and put the small bag beside the tub. The air was warm from the steam and it smelled of her soap. To the side of her vision, she unintentionally viewed a part of his nude flesh, likely his arm. "When you finish, you will give me the blade." was her firm command as she fled out of the small bath chamber, she did not care to listen to his response.

Oz continued to clean himself for almost an hour. Cerya downed two small goblets of wine by the time he finished and felt considerably more relaxed than she had earlier in the day. Her sleep had been interrupted by Denam's arrival in the early morning and she was exhausted, her mind did not work as quickly as she would have liked. She listened to Oz until she heard his footsteps behind her. Cerya cautiously turned to see Oz only covered in a towel; he carried his trousers in his hand and seemed to stare at them disapprovingly. His hair was brushed back and his face newly-shaved. A quick glance over him showed that his wounds were entirely healed, only the deepest had left small pink scars that would fade in time.

"I require clean clothing." Was all he spoke as he placed the small wet shaving blade beside her. Cerya bristled in indignation at his demand and flicked the small knife into her hand, away from him. They had given him freedom and now he demanded servants?

"You would be sorely mistaken if you assume I keep male clothing in my possession." She bit out. It earned her a laugh from the man, who seemed to enjoy her annoyance. Cerya did have one pair of trousers and a top that she wore to meetings, but it would be unlikely to fit the male. As if to further agitate her, the Lodissian tossed his dirty trousers he had worn when he was a prisoner onto the floor in the corner and poured himself more wine. Cerya instinctually looked over to the spear near her chair, as if its presence calmed her.

After a sip, he looked back up at her. "Call the servants, then. I will give them my measurements and my requests." He stated it with complete confidence and as if he expected to be obeyed. She wondered if he annoyed her intentionally or if it was simply his personality that grated her. Cerya was ready to deny him, before she realized if she did not allow him new clothes, he would walk the halls naked. Given that she was not permitted to leave him alone, it meant he would be beside her and it would only draw unwanted attention to them both. For a moment she considered the idea of keeping him naked; it might certainly be a good subtle revenge, yes. She smiled darkly at the thought before she released a sigh. No, she would not do such, she was not that cruel and she had sworn to herself to abstain from her revenge. Cerya conceded and got up from the chair. She took her spear from its resting position and slid it down her back into her belt.

"Very well. I'm going-" Cerya paused when she realized Oz no longer looked at her. His attention was focused on the small package she left on the table. Cerya inhaled deeply at the look in his eyes. Perhaps the object Hobyrim had given her was once Ozma's? "Sir Oz." Cerya's voice snapped Oz's gaze away from the object. "If you know them, tell me your measurements and size so I may request clothes of the servants." He answered quietly and Cerya made a mental note of the measurement, she lacked quill and parchment on hand so her memory would have to do. His style request was a simple "formal Lodissian style." and Cerya had been tempted to omit it. She finally continued: "That package is a gift for you. Hobyrim gave it to me as you bathed. He told me to tell you that he gave Ozma her last rites and sent her body back to your family."

Oz did not respond. He gently took the small package in his hands and ran his fingers over the top with halcyon strokes. Cerya felt as if she witnessed a sacred ritual of sorts and turned away. It felt wrong to intrude on his privacy, even if she had orders to do so. Cerya quietly slipped from the room, with her spear and dagger in hand there were no weapons for him to use. Despite her caution, she knew it did not matter, for Oz was too preoccupied to care about anything but what was in the small package. Cerya rushed down the halls until she found one of the servants who ran errands into town. She gave him the coin and the orders - she also ordered a pair of boots, though Oz had not asked for them, and the servant bowed deeply before rushing off. She hoped she had guessed Oz's shoe size correctly, but if she had not, she could always order a second pair. Cerya made note of the young servant's freckled face in case he ran off with the money, and turned back to her room. With the main force of the Resistance returned, the halls were no longer empty. They did not bustle as when they were on the move, but it was not uncommon for Cerya to run into multiple soldiers as she walked the halls. Her room was in was in a hall specifically designated for those of higher rank, but even it contained many servants who rushed to and fro on orders. They barely paid Cerya any heed as they went about their duties.

Cerya re-entered her room quietly only to see a very distressed Oz stare back at her. Perhaps she imagined it, but he looked almost as if he wanted to cry. Cerya tried to offer him a smile, but his dark mood influenced hers and she could not bring her lips to form more than a small upcurve that did not reach her eyes. She removed her shoes again and placed them by the door. As she took a step towards her prisoner, she noticed the small package was open and inside lay a few stray objects. From her distance, Cerya could only see a necklace, a ring, a small enchanted dagger, but she was sure there were more, as Oz seemed to hold one item as well. Cerya recognized and respected his need for space and walked over into her bedchamber as to not disturb him. She again removed her spear and placed it against the wall before she sat down onto her bed. As she lay still, she pretended to ignore she the ragged gasps that came from the other room.

Despite all of her internal warnings against it, she did not take the dagger from Oz.

* * *

><p>Cerya gently pushed the door shut behind her, a bright smile on her face as she leaned against it. She slid down the wall and laughed softly, her knees were pressed against her chest, encircled by her arms. Her undergarments were exposed, but she did not care. Tears of happiness streamed over her features and almost wanted to giggle, as if she were a young girl again.<p>

All of her fears, all of her hopes. . .

"Are you well?" Oz's voice was quiet; he had collected himself since his breakdown earlier in the day. Cerya looked up, not even Oz could sour her mood on this evening. The clothes she had ordered earlier in the day had arrived and he was no longer dressed in only a towel. Instead he had chosen to dress in his new nightclothes, which consisted of a simple top and dark pants. Cerya smiled to herself and pushed herself off the floor as she removed her boots.

"Yes, Yes, I'm quite well." Her voice was uncharacteristically high and she would even call it feminine. She walked past Oz, who gently took her by the shoulder and turned her around. He seemed cautious, as if Cerya was entirely foreign to him.

"What happened?" he looked surprisingly worried at her abnormal manner. Cerya could no longer hold it in.

"Sh-she's alive!" She gasped out before she fell into warm laughter.

Cerya pulled out of Oz's grasp. All of her sadness and all of her regret was gone, temporarily. Her obsession with vengeance hadn't torn their family apart a second time. During their evening meeting, Cerya had been struck silent at Cistina's bright, glowing visage. Folcurt had escorted her; apparently, they had kept Cistina's awakening a secret, as they wanted to reveal it at a very special moment. With Olivya's return, and their father's – who Cerya was slightly less pleased about - Cistina had thought it appropriate to finally show herself. She worked in secret to rebuild her body. She was nowhere near battle-ready given her extended coma, but the healers had done a magnificent job; that she could even walk, even if she required Folcurt's assistance showed her strength and determination. If Cerya had her way, she would never let Cistina see the field again; she hadn't realized how badly she missed her younger sibling until she saw her stand in front of her.

Cerya could not remember a time she had felt such relief.

"You should smile more often. A stern face does you no credit."

Cerya whipped around. Simple words would not harm her mood, but she was shocked to hear them from the Lodissian. He spoke them with a straight face and Cerya wondered if he mocked her.

Cerya's tone was light as she humored him. "How decidedly normal. What ever happened to liking screaming and begging?" Cerya turned back around and walked into her room, the small smile still on her lips. Oz did not follow, as he recognized she was prepared to dress down for the evening. He called to her softly, his own tone less serious than it had been earlier in the day.

"I am a simple man. I can appreciate a beautiful woman's smile."

"Beautiful." Cerya's reply was flat. She was surprised that she lacked annoyance; she felt quite the opposite, in her pleasant mood she found she could appreciate Oz's odd jests. "I worry that, from you, 'tis not a compliment." Cerya released the leather of her belt with practiced ease. She removed her spear and placed it beside her bed, and slid the dagger under her pillow, she immediately missed the weight of both. She pulled her warm dress off over her head, a motion that served to tangle her hair. Cerya was amused when she realized that her prisoner now had more sets of clothing than she.

"I am not one to compliment casually." He paused, his tone serious. Cerya slid on her nightshift and ran her fingers through her hair in attempt to bring order to the horrid mess it often became after hours without a brush. "Other than a woman kneeling in submission before me, I find very few things beautiful." Cerya walked back out into the guest room; she did her best to ignore the rather disturbing comment. "At home, I've a collection of beautiful slaves taken from my conquests." That caused Cerya to frown as she poured herself a glass of water, was his comment necessary? Oz seemed remarkably talkative; Cerya wondered if he had been lonely. It was an odd thought brought upon by an empathetic mood. "But in Lodis, there is -_was- _one who shined brighter than all others."

"Your sister." Cerya replied.

"Yes." No longer did he seem to speak in jest. Cerya looked over his face, which now held a frown. He did not seem interested in further conversation, despite only just a moment earlier he had spoke energetically. Cerya felt a flood of remorse. She had come back into the room with a bright smile and laughter and had thrown it into Oz's face that her sister lived, when only hours before he had received his sister's only belongings. Had someone done similarly to her she doubted that she would have responded similarly and instead likely with a cool anger. Despite his rather fragile exterior in regards to his sister, it seemed Oz was remarkably thick-skinned.

Newly-filled glass in hand, Cerya turned and walked away, to leave Oz to his memories. Cerya's mood remained high and she would not have a mopey Lodissian ruin it. Cerya sat on her bed and picked up her reports from the bed stand beside her; they were mostly orders that Denam requested Cerya to monitor. She organized them by importance, cost, and necessary resources. She did not have a quill in her room, which she cursed herself for on multiple occasions, but a quick glance over the papers made it easy to determine what she would request when she returned them to Denam in the morning.

So caught up she was in her work that Cerya did not hear Oz's light knock on her wall. She was only alerted to his presence when he spoke.

"Why did he kill her?" Cerya looked up, entirely confused by the statement until she realized exactly who he referred to. Cerya briefly felt a flash of annoyance; did Oz speak of no one but his sister? The annoyance faded into a soft warmth and even respect, for she someday hoped to do the same, once the war ended. Her sisters deserved more from her than she had been able to give. "She would not have harmed him." His voice quieted and was little more than a whisper. "She would have done anything for him."

Cerya found it odd that the Lodissian confided his worry to her. Even stranger was the revelation that Ozma and Hobyrim had such a close relationship. "It was battle. You could not expect Hobyrim to not defend himself."

Oz shook his head, almost violently. He had not entered her room, but he remained in the doorway. "She would not have attacked him, upon seeing who he was. For years she thought him dead; she would have given anything to have him back." Cerya piled her now-organized orders up and placed them back onto her nightstand. She felt almost like a mother who consoled her upset child.

"They were very close, then?" Cerya had not been aware that Hobyrim and Ozma knew each other at all.

"Yes. They were to be married, but he was exiled for murder." Oz had a disgusted look on his face, Cerya's mind wrapped itself around the marriage comment and stored it away for later questioning. She soon forgot about it as Oz continued his rant. "He shamed not only his family but ours! He rejected everything that Ozma was willing to give for him for his ridiculous 'morality.'" Oz hit his fist against his hand in anger. Cerya jumped, surprised; she had underestimated how emotional he was. "He showed no mercy in cutting her down, and yet still he had the gall to bring her items to me!" his words were almost a hiss and he had the dark, cruel look on his features again. She had seen him violent before, but his current countenance downright disturbed her.

Cerya slid off her bed, taking the dagger from underneath her pillow. Oz watched the motion as Cerya cautiously walked over to him. He was taller than she, and far more emotional, but Cerya clearly dominated the room with her calm presence.

"I do not know the specifics, nor do I believe it is my business. But I ask you this: Would she wish you to sit and cry about what you've lost?" Cerya had asked the same question of herself after her mother died. "I cannot say why Hobyrim killed her and likely we will never know. All I can say is that you should live how she wished you to." Her mother's bright smile filled her memory, as did a vision of her sister's faces. When she had thought Cistina dead, Cerya had been able to accept her views. Perhaps she would never entirely follow them, but she could accept them. "Be the person your sister wished you to be."

Oz was silent before he turned away. "Yes sister, I understand now." he murmured to himself. "Thank you, Cerya." were the last words he spoke to her that night. After that, he lay on the couch, with no pillow or blanket. He curled up lightly, but the night was warm enough that he would not be harmed by his lack of covers. She did not know how long it took him to fall asleep, for she quickly went back to her own bed and blew out her candle. Cerya's mood dulled lightly at his outburst, but Cistina's playful visage brought her only pleasant dreams.

* * *

><p>"If I told you that I would only feel pleasure at your death and lust to hear your screams and cries, how would you feel?"<p>

"Unsurprised. Annoyed, but unsurprised." To her great distaste, Cerya had grown accustomed to Oz's comments. She had quickly learned he only spoke such when he desired attention or was bored. The first time he had said such, Cerya had drawn her weapon and forced it against his throat. He had smiled as if remarkably pleased with himself, but made no attempt to see his threat through.

"Not offended?" He pressed, tone amicable. Even though Cerya did not look up, she could tell he smiled from his chair across from her.

"From you, 'tis practically 'Hello.'" Cerya put her quill down and moved to the next parchment. Oz's smile turned down a bit, as if sad at her lack of reaction.

As with before, Cerya had been ordered to remain in Phidoch and oversee administrative matters. Denam had been extremely pleased with her results and told her that she was more of an asset in governing Resistance internal policy than on the battlefield. At first, Cerya had been offended; she was a very capable warrior and one of his more experienced captains, but she had slowly conceded that had she allowed anyone else to oversee the bureaucratic work, she would only end up annoyed and be forced to change it again at a later point to something she preferred. She had given in with little argument, as Denam could be persuasive when he chose to be. Even her father, who acted as one of Denam's aides, followed her orders without question.

Oz had been a constant nuisance since Denam had ordered him under her care. It was not that he did anything _wrong_, quite the opposite - he had been remarkably well mannered other than his quips in ill-taste, it was his existence that made her work more difficult. She could not leave him be for any prolonged period; though he had shown no interest in escape, and had multiple opportunities to do so,it was difficult for Cerya to let old worries die. She could not bring him into the meeting room for fear that he would be recognized. Finally, Cerya had opted for a desk, quill, and parchment to be brought into her small quarters, where she would work on her reports.

While she worked, Oz would often exercise. He had quickly regained much of his lost muscle mass, though Cerya still refused to give him a weapon. Cistina would visit at times, with Folcurt. Oz would tease her younger sister until her face was so red that it looked ready to explode and Cerya had to step in. After doing such on three separate occasions, Cerya finally realized it had become something of a sport between them; she wondered if Cistina recognized the Templar or if she was simply forgiving and willing to give him another chance - the chance Cerya continued to deny him.

"I can assist in this." Cerya looked at the sheet Oz pointed at. She picked it up and glanced through it; a Bakram-Valerian spy had attempted to infiltrate the Resistance, but was caught. Information extraction proved difficult and it was requested Cerya decide what to do with the prisoner.

"Are you mad? Why would I allow you to do such?" She placed the parchment back down immediately.

"It would solve your problem and alleviate my boredom."

"Why should I trust you?" The Templar had a point, but Cerya was unwilling to give in without a fight.

"Have I given you reason not to?" To her surprise, Oz sounded truly offended. Cerya shook her head; he spoke the truth, he had not done anything that would cause her to distrust him. He had been obedient and quiet, as well as minded his own business until he fell to boredom. It was odd that she so firmly clung to the past when it was she who told both Oz and Denam to move on. As she mused on the subject for a moment, she realized how selfish she had been in that regard. If Denam could give him a chance for redemption, and Oz had wronged Denam almost as much as she, then perhaps she should as well.

Cerya finally nodded. "Very well. I will call for an escort. Use whatever means necessary, but we must be quiet about this." Oz nodded. It was not that Denam was against the use of torture for information - quite the opposite, his shadows employed it often and it was how he had learned of the presence of Hamilton in Heim and his own sister in Barnicia. Cerya was far more worried that people would learn of Oz's presence and spread word about; she hesitantly hoped that, for Oz's sake, the Lodissians did not learn he still lived.

Oz almost looked like a giddy child, his eyes bright and hopeful. Cerya held back her sigh and stood. As she used her guest chamber as a meeting room, she constantly had guards outside them during the day to prevent intrusion. A quick order to the guards and one rushed off in preparation of an escort. Oz paced about the room and Cerya motioned or him to exit. He kneeled by his boots, they were almost completely unused as Oz did not leave her room often, and put them on. Cerya stood by the door as Oz paced up and down the hall a few steps in anticipation. A few times, servants passed and stared at him, confused, but Oz had glared in return and told them to mind their business. After a few moments, a trio of armored Knights appeared and, which a quick order, Cerya sent Oz off with them. He gave them all an agitated look, but calmed into submission as he felt Cerya's glare on his back.

As Oz's form disappeared down the hall, Cerya re-entered her room. She released her soft sigh and walked back to her desk. The rest of the orders were mundane and Cerya glanced through them, head in her hand. Her hair fell over the desk and only barely her small inkwell, but she did not care. For some reason, she felt so exposed without the second presence in her room. It had been weeks since she last had time to herself and, now that she had it, she found she almost did not want it. Cerya did not understand herself at times.

At the very bottom of her pile was a small letter, addressed only with the word "Cerya" written in practiced calligraphy. Curious, Cerya cut the wax and read the short message. It was in what she knew to be Olivya's elegant script.

_Sister,  
>We took a detour; our march began later than expected. Denam recently befriended the Necroprentice Cressida. As I write this, Sherri sits beside me. She is so severe, much like you, but I can tell she is happy to be at our side. When this arrives at Phidoch, we will likely be beginning the assault on Barnicia. Pray for us.<br>Send father my regards.  
>With love,<br>Olivya  
>(and Sherri, too)<em>

Cerya inhaled. Sherri had been a subject Olivya and their father had been completely unwilling to bring up when they had spoken. Cistina had been the one to press about it, but she had gotten nowhere. The letter was short, but Olivya succeeded in her goal. Sherri had returned to them, and while Cerya found herself pleased to hear her sister was safe, she also felt so distant. Sherri and she had been close once, but with the rift, they had been ripped farther apart than any of the others. Perhaps someday they would share secrets over tea again, but Cerya knew it would not be any time soon.

* * *

><p>Cerya did not like the Princess.<p>

Which was entirely fair, as the Princess did not like her, either.

It felt as if reality hit her over the head with a mallet. Cerya had been passionate in her fight for the country that had been lost when Oberyth died, but when a successor had been found, only to be Denam's younger "sister," Cerya could not bring herself to feel any enthusiasm. The young woman had some skill in battle, but she lacked experience in command. She wanted to be more than a figurehead, but at the same time she did not seem to know how to. Sherri, too, shared Cerya's worries; though her younger sister did not openly admit it, she could tell Sherri was hesitant just from her neutral expression. Even after years apart, they could still read each other fairly well.

Cerya had been perfectly ready to accept the young figurehead, for the younger woman allowed Denam to retain his control over the army, at least until she had started taking control over Cerya's administrative manners. Her reasons were sound, she wanted experience before she became Queen, but the problems occurred when she refused to listen to Cerya or even her father, Mrueva, in matters where she lacked experience. Instead she made easily-avoidable mistakes. She not only contradicted Cerya's orders on several occasions, but had also nullified them. Cerya did not take well to others who attempted to do her job for her, especially when they did a worse job of it than herself. With the Princess' presence, Cerya had been demoted into the position of glorified babysitter.

The Princess tried her hardest, Cerya could admit, but she would do well to listen to others from time to time. Cerya knew the truth was that only felt as she did because she had, for so long, been seeking the past. When she finally obtained the past she sought, a ruler to replace Oberyth and unify Valeria, it turned out very different from what she had expected or desired. The past seemed to be a constant struggle with Cerya; when she thought she made progress, she only slipped back into old habits. To the younger woman's credit, after she became overwhelmed, she finally approached Cerya. They sat across from each other, almost painfully, until the Princess admitted, with as much pride as she could muster, that she respected Cerya's experience and would appreciate her help from time to time.

It had been instinctual to decline; she almost snapped out a "no" without thought. The only reason she had stopped was a quick glance at Oz, who sat quietly in the corner. He paid little heed to them, but it was what he represented that made her second guess herself. Cerya constantly belittled herself for her hypocrisy when holding onto the past, but at times she refused to take the first step on the path to change. In determination to begin her long walk towards acceptance, Cerya conceded to the Princess with a silent nod. The younger woman immediately asked questions about resource management and troop placement. She was an avid learner who had a good grasp on concepts, but she often lacked foresight or missed the larger changes as she focused only on a smaller goal.

Denam and his sister had not been back for long before he began to form a strategy to retake Heim. With the Princess of their side, the Resistance's numbers increased overnight. The Commander had made no mention of Cerya's duties yet, but he also seemed at a loss about what to do with their "guest." Cerya's reports had told the truth: he was obedient, respectful, and spent much of his time reading or practicing what little he could without a weapon. He did not disrupt Cerya or any others who visited – with the exception of Cistina, who only came on social calls. When Cerya had read her report she had been as surprised as Denam at her own positive notes. For all of her distaste, from a neutral perspective she could admit that Oz had not broken his oath and his actions went well beyond what he had promised. Cerya was even tolerant of his unpleasant comments, though they did making her ill at times.

It was a week after their return to Phidoch that the Princess finally recognized Oz. Cerya and the Princess finished their lessons and the younger approached the door before she stopped. Oz, as always, remained silent but he did not hesitate to meet anyone's, even Catiua's, eyes whenever they stopped to look at him. The Princess did not seem to know how to react but with shock.

"You. . .you are. . .What are you doing here?" Catiua was tired from the lessons and almost dropped her parchment on Cerya's floor.

"Tch." was Oz's only reply and he turned back to his book.

Cerya walked over to the Princess, but kept her distance as was appropriate for their difference in positions. "Your Highness, please do not disturb my charge." Cerya was almost as surprised as Oz was that she defended the man. "If you've any questions, speak to the Commander about them." Cerya could tell the younger woman disliked Cerya's tone, but she said nothing. Her face twisted into an annoyed frown before she nodded and left without a word. Cerya, too, turned back to her desk and sat back down to clear off the mess the Princess' presence had left.

Oz, however, was not so well mannered to silently go about on his way and took every available opportunity to tease Cerya. "That you would speak in my defense. . ." Oz put his book down and stood up. He approached Cerya's desk but stood a few paces away to remind her of his presence.

Cerya would not fall to his bait. "Enough. I've work to do."

"What work? Were you not upset before because the girl seeks to do your job?" Cerya refused to look at Oz, her face revealed its shock at his question. How had he known?

"How. . .?"

"You hold it in, but I can tell. You hurt because your purpose has dwindled. You dislike that, to your commander, you are less the person and more the soldier." Of course, Oz saw many of her meetings and orders. Cerya had been cautious to allow him to do so at first, but it had been the first trust she had given him; he had not abused it. He saw Cerya's facial expressions and heard her words, it made sense that he would be able to understand why she struggled. He had little else to do during the day except stare at her and muse on her actions.

"Don't make such assumptions." Cerya snapped, fully aware that they both knew he was correct. A frown was etched on her face and she unintentionally grasped at her dagger. She had no intention to use it, but its presence made her comfortable and calmed her. She looked back down at her desk, but did not attempt to work. The desk was a fine piece of woodwork, a light oak with a dark finish. It was heavy and large and had taken many servants and soldiers to carry in. Cerya was very devoted to her job - that she lacked motivation to work revealed to Oz that he walked the path to her inner self.

"They are not assumptions." Oz had not moved and his words held a familiar stubbornness. "I am neither blind nor deaf. I know you better than you know yourself."

"Is this your way of taking pleasure from my pain?" Cerya finally snapped in frustration and got back up, even though she had sat for less than a minute. Oz seemed to enjoy this game he played with her, even if he did not show it on his face. She almost wished he would sneer at her so she could hate him, but his words were austere. Despite her harsh reaction, as she stood in front of the man, she somehow felt she had misjudged him; he did not deserve such harsh words. But she had already made the first attack and she could not back down.

". . ." Oz looked. . .upset? Cerya could hardly believe this was the same Oz who she had wanted to kill just two Scales before. He almost looked vulnerable, but covered his face with that unexpressive mask he wore when defending himself. She had learned Oz's defensive tactics quickly, just as he had learned hers. Through their arguments, they had become closer than Cerya had been with anyone in years.

"Answer me!" Cerya's voice lost some of its strength, but contained the rest of her anger. She found herself deflated at Oz's continued silence, and even more so at his reply.

"It is you who makes assumptions of me." Oz did not turn away, but Cerya could no longer read him. Even his body language was controlled. His words served only to confuse her more.

"You speak nothing but riddles."

"Stop being so foolish, I've already told you. My entire life previous revolved around being nothing more than a soldier. I see the path you follow, the way you will break down and do what you must, for you love your people more than you love yourself. Just as you were willing to use any means while you led the Liberation Front." Cerya remembered what he referred to. It had been the first words he had spoken to her of what he truly thought, not simply what he wished people to think of him. At the time, Cerya did not believe she could relate, but now perhaps she understood him better than she would admit.

"Perhaps I want to be a simple soldier." A lie. Cerya could not image herself following commands without thought. If she found a way to be more efficient, even if they went against orders, she would do so. As Oz had said to her, it was not a soldier's job to think, but serve. Cerya served in her own way, even if it meant defiance of orders, so a soldier's life was not for her.

"If that is what you deign to tell yourself." Oz seemed annoyed. Finally, his mask broke and he looked down to Cerya. They met eyes briefly before Cerya turned away, she knew she had lost the battle. Oz's gaze lingered on her face; his eyes flickered up and down as he examined her. "You've lost your fire, your passion. I would see it rekindled."

Oz finally turned away. Without a word, he walked back to the small chair he sat in and picked up his book. Cerya watched him for a time, as she expected him to elaborate. Instead he chose to ignore her, his eyebrows drawn together in a crease as he turned the pages slowly. Cerya shook her head, expression confused and upset, before she went back to sit at the desk she had temporarily abandoned. Cerya stared at the parchment before her; after all of her moping about how she wanted to remain in her position, she lacked any desire to continue.

"There was one girl." Cerya looked up curiously in her prisoner's direction. Oz seemed amused, as if locked in a pleasant memory. His tone sounded as if he spoke to himself, but his words were obviously directed to at Cerya. "A young thing. She ran from home, likely, to join the Front." Cerya's full attention was on Oz now, her hand unintentionally clenched the armrest of her chair. "She was very expressive, even the smallest of emotions overwhelmed her face. I planned to kill her first, but such beauty should never be wasted. I would have brought her remains with me, had sister not scolded me."

"D-Disgusting" Cerya murmured to the delight of her tormenter. She shook in rage; Cerya had seen the girl before. As Oz said, she was young, inexperienced, but wanted nothing more than to save her country. Cerya denied none who shared her views, so long as they had been willing to do anything and follow her orders.

"But I've not yet gotten to the good part." Oz seemed sad that Cerya lacked his passion. "I did not kill her, not at first. The little creature made these delightfully pleasant gasps each time her comrades fell. She screamed 'No, no!' but did not step in to stop me; instead she huddled in the corner as she soiled herself in panic." Cerya did not want to hear any more and stood up ready to walk from the room. "Her eyes were so bright and beautiful, I remember the look clearly. Tears streamed down her face and those pouty lips of hers quivered in terror. She fell to the floor and begged on her hands and knees, but why would I spare one girl simply because she asked?" Cerya stood in front Oz now and grasped her dagger. She shook, barely able to contain her rage at his drawl. "Her fingers went first. At the first cut she made a high-pitched scream that resounded through Boed. By the last her throat parched and she could no longer make more than a squeak. After that went her toes; she squirmed so delightfully under my weight that I only found myself pressed forward to continue up her legs."

"Enough!" Cerya, no longer paralyzed, grasped at her dagger and straddled the sitting man to hold him down under her weight. Her hatred rekindled, she pressed her dagger to his throat and shook violently until she realized he did not struggle. Quite the opposite, he remained completely impassive as Cerya met his eyes. She had no idea how he could speak so casually of cruelty. He had a soft smile on his features as he looked up to her.

"This is a remarkably familiar situation." He laughed lightly, given the blade pressed into his neck. He seemed calm. "But no longer do I desire to end my own life."

For a moment Cerya stared at him. Oz's composed temperament and lack of continued mockery only led her to realize that, just a moment before, she would have reveled in his death. After all she had sworn to do, to learn to forgive and accept like Cistina, and to let go of the past like Denam, she still lacked the strength to do either. Oz's light laughter below her was not cruel, instead almost pleasant as he ran a hand down the side of her face. Cerya shivered at the touch and turned away, unable to face him as her mind danced around anger and shame in equal quantities.

"You. . ." Cerya understood. Oz had said those words to provoke a reaction. "I hate you." Despite the harshness, she felt tired and weak and the words lacked passion. She would even call her words pitiful. She lowered the blade from his neck and attempted to get off of him, but Oz held her with his arm, which he had slung around her waist.

"I don't think you do." He was more confident now, but his tone spoke of an odd understanding. "What you hate now is your lack of power and ability to act. But," He paused and tilted his head to the side. The rage had partially drained from Cerya's eyes as she met his once again. "If hating me will bring back your passion, then I will accept your fury."

Cerya again attempted to stand, but Oz did not release her. Had she put her strength into it she would have been able to force his arm off, but she lacked the motivation to do so. She hung her head and sighed in that she knew he was correct. She hated how she felt so useless, how the fate of the country was out of her hands. Though her family had reunited, a dream of hers, they, too, had all grown and did not rely on her. Cerya was alone in many ways. She disliked the direction of her thoughts and knew she needed to change the subject. Her words were hesitant, carefully chosen.

"So you've found a way to live on your own." It was rather pathetic, Cerya knew, but Oz mentioned he no longer desired to end his life. If he did so, it meant that he had finally accepted his sister's death.

"No." His tone was firm and Cerya was all the more confused. She looked back up in attempt to read his features but Oz's mind was already elsewhere. "I will not allow you to suffer the same fate as Ozma."

"I have no intention of dying." Cerya's answer felt more like a question than a response. She did not understand what Oz implied. After a moment, she felt her hatred dwindle away into the back of her mind. In a strange twist, she felt as if some had drained away permanently. Her release of the revitalized anger had only shown her how pointless, even childish, it was.

"Sister was dead long before you laid eyes upon her." Oz's arm fell, his words remorseful and his face haunted. With his arm no longer around her, Cerya stood up and put her dagger back in its sheath. Oz did not stare at her, instead lost in his own thoughts, but she continued to stare down at him, entirely confused. She knew he meant well, and that his harsh words were likely the only way he had to show it, but _why?_

Cerya knew the answer; Oz had given it just a moment before. The thought sent a cold chill through her. He no longer clung to the memory of his sister because he had found someone to replace her. In contrast to her earlier words, she found herself unable to hate him; his reliance on her only interested her more.

* * *

><p>"I would like to march with you to Heim." Cerya declared. Denam didn't look up, instead his quill continued its scrawl along the parchment that contained orders. The room was pleasantly warm, but not overbearingly so. Denam had not taken his command back of many responsibilities he had given Cerya, instead his orders focused on communication with shadows and information he gathered.<p>

"Then who will steward Phidoch?" Was his offhand reply. He hardly paid Cerya any attention as he signed the order and wrote a small note on a parchment to his side.

"Does not her Highness choose to manage the castle?" Cerya could barely contain the spite in her voice, but Denam detected it and looked up. He examined her for a moment before he continued; a brief sigh caused his hair to blow over his face.

"She will march with me, you know this. You do a fine job and I understand your desire for action, but who else would I trust with the castle? Phidoch is not only our base, but is in an extremely important strategic location. We need someone skilled to remain behind in case of an emergency. We cannot have our enemies strike at our backs."

"I feel as if I could do so much more afield, Commander." Cerya's logic told her she would lose the battle and it had barely begun. She easily understood Denam's argument, even if she did not yet want to accept it. Her role was important, and yet she felt as if she had been left behind.

"And what of the Lodissian? I've heard little of him and you trust him enough to leave him be, but the assault on Heim will take more than a few days, he will be alone for weeks. We cannot afford to let him free, not yet." Denam looked back down to his paper. His words were passive, as if Denam did his best to not dwell over the man.

"He has been well mannered, yes." Though Cerya was still unsure if the Templar wished to escape, he had shown no desire to leave; he acted quite the opposite, instead he followed Cerya around willingly. Whenever he was not with her, she found herself looking to her side, where he usually stood or sat. She knew could not tell Denam that their Knight Commander happened to be good company, despite it being the truth.

"If you've an idea on how to deal with him, I would hear it." Cerya could not refute Denam's point. Even though the war would soon end, if Oz returned to Loslorien it would be a morale boost that could quite possibly turn the tides in the Lodissian's favor. Obedient prisoner or not, he had to remain in Phidoch, even if that meant with her. A very quiet voice of the back of her mind was glad he stayed beside her, as her family had moved on and Cerya was alone without them. With some caution, Cerya admitted that it was nice to have the attention

"No, sir." Cerya relented. She was needed in Phidoch and she was not childish enough to leave her post at what could possibly be their decisive battle. Cerya knew that, had Cerya a good defense, Denam would have allowed her back afield. Given Denam and Oz's "agreement" they could not simply toss the man into the dungeons and leave him there, even if she wanted to.

"I'm sorry, Cerya. I know it must be-"

"Denam." A voice called from the side door. Cerya and Denam looked over in unison to see Catiua enter the meeting room. She walked with a calm confidence, but Cerya could tell she held in anger. If it was perceptible to her, it must also be obvious to Denam. Denam stood from his chair out of respect for his the Princess.

"Sister, is there a problem?" Denam asked casually; he, too noted Catiua's foul mood. Catiua's false smile faded as she placed a parchment onto the table.

"Yes, there's a problem, look at the troop placement!" Her voice was surprisingly high, despite her anger.

"I wrote this. What is the matter?" Denam leaned back against the table in an almost bored manner. Cerya had seen Denam's placement. There were no problems with it; quite the opposite, Denam's orders were identical to what she would have done, other than replacing Olivya with Catiua.

"Why am I with the healers, brother? Do you not think me capable of fighting on the front lines?" Catiua pointed at her name. Denam did not bother to look.

"Our troops are familiar with their captains, to change them around at the last minute would cause naught else but chaos." Cerya agreed silently, but realized that this was not really a conversation she should listen to. If word spread that Denam and Catiua were fighting, dissent could spread through the troops and, the worst scenario would be the formation of factions behind one sibling or the other. Cerya did not know whether to leave and risk knowledge of their argument leak into the open, or stay and feel as if she was an uncomfortable bystander in business that was not hers. The decision was easy; Cerya chose the latter and watched the siblings. As uncomfortable as she was, she could not risk discord at such a vital time.

"That is exactly why I _must _lead in the front lines, so that the troops have a chance to see the woman they will follow into the new kingdom!" Catiua slammed her hand on the table in stubborn refusal to give into Denam's logic. Cerya sighed at the foolishness, but both ignored her. It was enough that Catiua would tell Cerya, who was much more experienced than she, that she was wrong, but to tell Denam, a charismatic leader who had fought his way into power from almost nothing? Cerya could hardly believe her ears.

"The people love you, sister, but moreso, so I do. I cannot allow you to act so brashly." Denam released a sigh that mimicked Cerya's and turned away. He did not sit down, simply organized his parchment that Catiua's hand knocked over the table.

"I will not take no for an answer, brother!" Cerya almost wanted to slap the girl. In some sense, she was reminded of Cistina's stubbornness. Cistina had constantly put herself into danger for her beliefs and did not realize that, if she died, she would never see them to completion. It had been the cause of many an argument between them and Cerya empathized with Denam's exasperation.

"Nor will I. I am not changing troop placements. Stop being foolish, sister, I have given you exactly what you wanted. The healers are a beacon of hope to the warriors. They run through the field, tending to those drawing their last breaths, mending pain, and allowing the men to return home to their families. If you are head of the healers, you are the one who signifies that hope – that safety and relief!" Denam's voice had turned stern again, almost condescending. He had snapped the reply out, but unless one spoke with him often, as Cerya did, one wouldn't have noticed his impatience. It was times like these that Cerya realized how much Denam had changed from when she knew him as a child. She could hardly imagine that young boy, barely able to leave the side of his sire, had turned into the man before her now. She felt a surprising affection for him, not entirely different from what she felt for Olivya and Cistina.

For a long moment Catiua was silent. She stared at Denam whose face expressed its familiar impassive mask. Finally, Catiua turned her head down in remorse. Her bangs fell over her face and she could not meet Denam's firm gaze.

"I-I see now. Perhaps I am inexperienced, brother. I'm sorry. There's so much I've yet to learn, I should attempt to look at what is beyond my nose from time to time." Denam rewarded her with a soft smile and lifted her face up. They met each others eyes and, as if it were magic, all things were right again between them.

"'Tis fine sister, I apologize for my outburst as well. Hopefully we will not need to discuss troop placement after Heim falls, but if we do, I promise to listen to your input." Cerya nodded to herself and made for the door. The entire situation had begun to unsettle her. How could Denam simply forgive his sister so easily? She understood they had a close relationship, but Cerya's own anger could never be swept away in an instant. As neither of the two paid any heed to her, Cerya turned and quietly left the room.

"No brother, I see why you do what you do now. I am experienced in the arts of healing, as well. To simply jump into battle is . . . " Were the last words Cerya heard as she walked down the hall.

Cerya had a deep frown on her face. Her day seemed only get worse and worse; she was stuck in Phidoch and now, as she always did, she had to face Oz. Cerya had tried her best to avoid the subject internally, but the scene between Catiua and Denam only rekindled the flame of confusion, disgust, and curiosity. Oz seemed to think of her as he did his sister. Oz did nothing but tease her with his vulgar jests - there were times Cerya wondered if they were jests at all - and say she reminded him of Ozma, yet their relationship was nothing like Denam's and Catiua's, or even Cerya and her own sisters'. Cerya enjoyed her time spent with her sisters, but could not tolerate spending all day with the females as she did Oz, but in contrast, she and Oz's relationship was far more tense. It could be the product of Cerya's own remaining vengeance, but she and Oz constantly argued and -

Cerya paused in the hallway at the realization. Oz _flirted _with her. It was no wonder their relationship was so different than Catiua and Denam's, Oz did not view her as his sister at all! She may be similar to Ozma, but, despite the constant comparisons to her, Oz certainly did not treat her like a brother would. She wondered how she could have been so blind - naive, even. She had trusted Oz, as much as disliked the idea of it, and in doing so she had opened up a bridge between them. She had been so focused on her hatred, then her anger at herself for Cistina, then her work, that she had completely missed the male's intent.

Cerya almost turned around and walked back to Denam to tell him that no, their prisoner was absolutely not obedient and that he should go back to the dungeons immediately, but stopped herself. Certainly Oz wasn't _that _bad, despite his misguided attempts at courtship. She would need to simply keep her distance and let him do as he normally would, she just needed to be sure she did not accidentally respond in a way that could promote his behavior. There was certainly no need for them to not stop contact.

Cerya sighed; she could hardly believe what she was thinking. That she had somehow gained the interest of the Lodissian was confusing enough, but that she found she did not want him to stop was even worse! Her mind screamed of caution, curiosity, and horror. From behind her, she heard a loud, masculine grunt. Cerya turned quickly in surprise; she realized she hadn't moved from her place in the hall when a bulky warrior cleared his throat in attempt to alert Cerya that she was in his way. Cerya uncharacteristically blushed; she acted like a lovesick child, and she was not in love at all! She immediately took a step to the side to allow the burly man to pass and continued her walk back to her room.

Cerya found she simply did not understand herself when it came to matters related to the Knight Commander.

As expected, Oz remained in her room. It had been an odd moment when one day, weeks ago, that Cerya had come to accept and expect his presence when she returned. It had become a familiar part of her day and even her guards had come to expect him. Cerya kneeled and slid off her new boots. She had been glad to finally get a replacement for her older ones and, though they were not yet worn in, they still made her feel less exposed. She looked up to her companion; he had recently ordered more clothes and he wore one of his finer garments. He seemed to prefer silk and velvet, which were of rare commodity in Valeria. Cerya had scolded him about spending Resistance - and her - money for such petty items, but he had only stared in confusion. Oz was apparently used to obtaining anything and everything he wanted; cost had never been an issue for him. He had even gone as far as to order her a dress. It was not in a fashion Cerya would have bought herself, let alone normally would wear at all, but she appreciated the gesture and wore it when she had little to do, simply because she did not receive presents often. What annoyed Cerya more than Oz's constant desire for new clothes was his use of her soap and wash. She had asked him to buy his own rather than to simply use hers, but he declined, saying the smell reminded him of her. Cerya had thought it a bit odd at the time, but now that she understood his meaning, it disturbed her.

Cerya walked over to her desk; no longer did it hold all of the papers it once did, as much of her workload had been taken on by the Princess. She looked down with distaste and unintentionally sighed; not bothering to sit, she simply leaned on the edge of the sturdy desk.

"Your commander does not permit you to march to Heim." Oz's voice rang through the room; it was not a question. Cerya had learned more recently that Oz was startlingly adept at reading her. He had little else to do at times except stare at her, so it made sense, but she found it disconcerting that he could easily do so especially since it had been only a few moments since her arrival.

Though he could easily read her, she had learned to quickly read his body language as well. Even when he tried to hide his emotions she could see the small changes - his impassive masks usually signified that he was sad or distressed. When he was nervous he would shift his weight and often felt for a blade or axe that was not there. When annoyed, he would, oddly enough, frown. He would stare, almost boldly, whenever he desired something; he stared at Cerya often and Cerya now felt she understood why. Though he smiled often, his smiles were false and very rarely did they represent his feelings. Cerya believed she had only seen him truly smile once or twice, but recently he had begun to do so more often.

"You're part of the problem. I cannot just leave you alone." Cerya's reply was unintentionally harsh, but paired with her sour mood and the revelation that Oz desired her, she could not hold back the spiteful words. It was partially his fault, she would admit, but it was not he who had angered her.

To her surprise, Oz did not seem offended by her words. Instead, he had a self-satisfied smirk on his features "So I get you all to myself."

Cerya looked at him. His satisfaction remained evident and Cerya had no idea how to respond. Never before had she been so eagerly pursued by a man, nor did she have any idea on how to reject him. She wondered what her fallen comrades would say if they knew she dallied with the one who killed them. Cerya stopped the thought before it went any further; she would not obsess over revenge, it only caused pain.

"You go too far with your jests." Cerya finally replied, but she knew as well as he that they were not jests. She looked back down to her desk in attempt to pretend to work, only to find there was no parchment to look at. Instead, she walked over to her small couch, where Oz usually slept, and sat down. Oz had become bolder of late, she mused to keep her mind off of the discomfort between them. Though she was not keen on the idea of a relationship, she found his constant attention to almost flatter her, if it did cause a bit of worry. After a moment of discomfort, Cerya finally spoke, unable to withstand the tension. "Oz." Oz looked down at her from his standing position.

Cerya very rarely spoke his first name without the formal "Sir" in the front. She was unsure what provoked her to drop the formality, but it seemed to please the male. He quietly sat beside her, uncomfortably close. Cerya moved her legs away from his in attempt to increase the distance between them. Oz and Cerya teased each other and often spoke in a serious manner in a way they would to no one else. That Cerya even permitted Oz to get close to her signified a trust she had not realized she had for him; perhaps, in that way, they were as siblings.

"Why do you compare me to your sister? You and I are nothing like siblings." Her mind went back to how kind and forgiving Denam was with Catiua, and how both Cistina and Olivya loved and accepted almost unconditionally. Apparently, Sherri and Cerya had received all of the negative traits in the family.

"You are very much like her." was Oz's reply. He spoke it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Did you treat Ozma the same way you treat me?" Cerya pushed as she forced her tone to be light. The conversation quickly veered from its original direction and Cerya could not find a way to turn it back; she did not know if she was desperately curious or if she walked into a pit of dragons.

"Yes."

"I'm not entirely certain how to approach this appropriately, Oz, but. . ." Cerya hesitated. Despite her light, cautious tone, she was unsure where to begin. Incest was not uncommon, but when it occurred it was usually not openly spoken of. Again Oz seemed to take no offense, instead he laughed lightly, as if amused.

"I am well aware that my actions with Ozma bordered on distasteful. You needn't worry, she told me constantly." He smiled; Cerya supposed it was good he could joke about his nature, even if it disturbed her. Of more importance, he could speak of Ozma without that bleak look in his eyes.

"You. . .seek the same relationship with me as you had with Ozma?" Cerya finally asked bluntly. She disliked the game they played, she would rather have his thoughts out in the open than hidden behind seductive, playful words that hinted at more but promised less.

"And more." He ran a hand up her thigh, under the leather of her dress. Cerya caught his hand and put it back onto his leg immediately. She would not give in, no matter how much he lusted for her. She did not know if Ozma had allowed her brother to touch her so, but Cerya certainly would not tolerate it.

"I am your captor. I do not understand how we came to be in this predicament, but what you wish for is impossible."

"I think, perhaps, you understand me in a way you do not realize - in a way none have before." Oz explained and again put his hand on her, this time on her cheek. "And I see the person you hide - the kind woman you desperately seek to be and the impenetrable one you know you are not." Cerya resisted the urge to pull away, to do so would only cause him to continue. No, Cerya corrected herself, that was wrong; when asked, Oz gave her the distance she desired. She badly misjudged him before and continued to do so, even after she should have learned otherwise. He was serious with her; if Cerya said "no," he would listen.

"I feel nothing for you. No longer do I feel contempt or hatred, but nor I do lust for you as you do me." Oz dropped his hand and Cerya sighed inwardly in relief. She felt oddly empty after she said such.

"You acknowledge my advances." Cerya did not answer, nor did Oz seem to expect one. His voice was little more than a whisper.

Cerya and Oz remained on the small couch in silence; neither felt any desire to leave.

* * *

><p>"I am going mad."<p>

Oz walked into Cerya's bedroom. He had long since given up knocking and would often come in without warning. Cerya was fully dressed and ran a brush through her long hair. Her spear lay alone against the wall by her bed; some part of her knew she should be pleased to not have to use it, but another part longed for the field of battle where she was feared and respected. Often stories told of heroes who, after battle, disappeared from their country to go on a journey; Cerya understood them now, for she could not imagine the rest of her life in a dull castle, tending to servants, writing orders, and gaining fat instead of muscle.

"I thought perhaps you reached that point long ago." was her reply. Oz had just finished his morning bath. He had a pair of dark trousers on, but lacked a shirt. His hair was unbrushed, he did not intend to do so until he finished his morning stretches. He leaned against her wall expectantly as Cerya finished brushing her hair and ignored her response.

"I wish to practice with a blade." Cerya placed the brush down on her bedstand, unsure if she had heard correctly. All at once she was both shocked and completely unsurprised. For three scales he had been a prisoner, two of which he had been in her room, unable to do little more than stretch and strengthen his muscles. Cerya was amazed he waited as long as he had, but also worried that he again tested the length of his leash. Not that it particularly mattered; Denam marched on Heim, if he was not there already, and soon the Lodissians would be pushed back entirely. With the country united, Oz would be released and permitted to return to Lodis.

"I'm not sure that's wise." Cerya finally replied cautiously. She empathized with him; she felt her own skill rusty from lack of use.

"What am I going to do?" Oz shrugged, annoyed. "We've already lost and are prolonging the inevitable. The High Commander gambled with the Princess; we openly proclaimed our support of her position and cannot turn back now. Once Brantyn has been removed, the war will be over. I will be a prisoner of war without either a prison or a war."

Cerya did not rise from her bed, instead she stared longingly at her spear. Denam had not retracted his orders; Oz was to remain out of the public eye at all times, yet she also could not deny Oz was correct. She felt he deserved at least a bit of freedom.

"Very well." She complied. "I will reserve a private training room for you." Oz smiled brightly and, had he been a child, he would have danced from the room to finish dressing himself. Cerya shook her head, she certainly hoped she had made the right decision. She offered a small smile and she walked into the guest room. The servants had already brought breakfast. Oz, well mannered man he was, slid Cerya's chair out. It had taken her time to get used to being treated like a proper woman, but she now found she enjoyed it. One of the earliest things she had learned about her companion was that he was a remarkably picky eater. He disliked much of Valeria's native cuisine and instead only ate foreign foods. He had a taste for Dragon Steak and some particular fruits, but he disliked Valerian sauces. It was good that Valeria was an island where traders frequently stopped, for if not, she feared Oz would never eat at all.

Their morning meal was pleasant. They did not speak, but often they did not have to. On some days, Oz would ask Cerya if she had anything necessary to do, to which she would reply "nothing out of the ordinary." It had become something of a joke between them, they understood that both of them desired to do more with their lives than sit around in a castle. Cerya learned that Oz was intensely social; he enjoyed speaking and being spoken to, even if his words often drove those unfamiliar with him to anger. His isolation had likely been more of a punishment than even the torture.

After she finished, Cerya rose. She did not look over to Oz, who still picked at his food in attempt to separate the "acceptable" and "disgusting" parts. She no longer worried that Oz would kill someone if she left him alone; he had held a weapon for well over a scale - Ozma's dagger - and had not acted inappropriately with it. She had left her own spear in the room on multiple occasions and he had not touched it, either. Though she did not bother to bring her spear with her at all times, her dagger always remained on her belt. The Phoraena had not yet received any reports for the morning, so she had little work to do, best make preparations now, before work got in the way later. As promised, she slid her boots on and waved back to Oz, as she would go to reserve a private training room. He did not return the motion.

The training halls were almost silent, most of the Resistance army had left with Denam. Only the youngest and most inexperienced remained, but with Cerya's strict orders pertaining to training, they had improved greatly over the past weeks. Though Denam had made a fuss about the necessity to defend Phidoch, he lad left very few capable warriors to assist her. At one point, she had been required to go to the training halls to give lessons in magic to those who sought to become Rune Fencers or, more commonly, Valkyries. With the only other experienced Valkyrie in the castle ill, only Cerya had enough skill to adequately teach the trainees.

In Phidoch, the training halls were only second in the size only to the great hall. The inside was used for training with shorter range weapons, such as blades and axes. In one corner there was also an area for offensive magic, though in some places magical training came from families or from specialized schools. On the walls were racks holding weak weapons of varying sizes and shapes. Outside was a larger field, where whips, spearplay, and archery were practiced. In one corner was a small unused desk with large parchments atop it and an inkwell to the side. Cerya knew the parchment to hold the schedule for training over a week. Cerya moved the top parchment to the side to look at the private chamber schedules; very few were taken. Cerya chose a larger room for Oz, one that was often used in magical training. She wrote her name down with the inkwell and quill and turned.

How dull her life had become. It saddened her when it would be considered an "outing" for her to simply walk over to the training halls and write her name on a sheet of parchment. In some ways it was a relief from the constant bemoaning of the people of Phidoch that she had to deal with; as steward, Cerya found the worst part of her job to give audiences. Farmers, nobles, and commons alike all flocked to her on specific days to speak their worries or ask for coin. Cerya had little patience for any of them and often would snap in disgust. The nobles particularly annoyed her; they knew she was Bakram, her accent made it obvious, and their distaste caused them to constantly attempt to belittle or insult her. They disliked that the Bakram, once again, determined their fates. Once, in anger, she had thought to mention that Denam himself, and their beloved Princess, were Bakram, but caught herself in time. It was not worth it to snap at a petty annoyance such as them; it was not worth harm it could cause to the Resistance.

The walk back to the room was uneventful, she did not even encounter any young soldiers who inquired as to how her day was or if she enjoyed the bright, warm weather. Few servants rushed down the halls, for at such an early time in the morning many worked to distribute meals and clean rooms, such as bringing fresh bathwater or emptying chamberpots. Other than a distant call of voices from down the hall or the soft song of birds out the open windows, Cerya felt decidedly alone, only amplified by her familiarity at having a presence constantly by her side.

Oz was on the floor doing his exercises when she entered her room, he had removed his shirt and wore only his trousers and gloves. Cerya glanced at the folded garment, amused; he had only just put his shirt on for breakfast, before he took it off a few moments later. She slipped off her boots without care and placed them next to Oz's by the door before she walked over to her desk. _Still _the servants had not yet come to deliver her assignments for the day, and none of her patrols or shadows had returned, so she had little to do. It was not long before Cerya was bored. The small window was not near her desk so she could not peer outside, and there was nothing for her to do. It was arrogant of her, but Cerya knew the Resistance was well-managed under her guidance; no longer did Cerya deal with Denam's stress. Of course, for those under her, she was _too_ efficient. Cerya had incredibly high expectations and was willing to remove Resistance members from their posts if they were not met. She would not tolerate anything but the best when it came to Phidoch, after all, that was what she expected of herself, she could expect no less from others.

Out of sheer boredom, she looked over to Oz, who was sweating from his strenuous exercise. His soft breaths resounded through the room and his hair had fallen out of place. If possible, his pale skin had become even paler from his extended time indoors. His scars were completely healed and, Cerya noted with some curiosity, his skin was delicate and almost feminine. The hair on his body was just as red as the hair on his head. She supposed it was his upbringing that allowed him to look so unweathered and clean. His muscles had redeveloped nicely from the terrible wounds they had endured; despite his confinement he looked much more the adept warrior than some of the children admitted to the Resistance troops.

"Enjoy what you see?" Oz stopped his push-ups to stare at Cerya, his voice a light tease.

"What?" Cerya was confused for a half-second before she realized what he implied. She blushed unintentionally, for she had not intended to gawk so. "No! I've nothing better to do than watch you." It was the truth, but aloud her excuse sounded pathetic, even to her ears.

"You could join me." Despite his playful words, he seemed quite serious about his invitation. Cerya mused on it for moment, before she politely declined.

"No, thank you, I've finished my exercises for the morning." Cerya always exercised before her bath, for she did not enjoy the feel of sweat under her clothes.

"Then why the odd look?" He pressed. He seemed to think Cerya hid something when in truth, Cerya was simply bored out of her mind. Cerya corrected herself: Oz very likely knew Cerya sought something to amuse herself with and was likely attempting to start a conversation. She smiled lightly, she would play along. There had been something she had thought of the night previous.

"Have you reached a conclusion?"

"About?" Oz stood up and stretched; he gave Cerya his full attention when she spoke.

"Us: the people of Valeria. Denam asked you to see us as more than sheep, more than something to simply dominate in your quest for power." Cerya was curious to see his answer and to see if it was simply her own perception.

"If you expect me to have changed my mind, you'd be remarkably mistaken. If anything, my captivity has shown just how foolish the Islanders can be." Oz paused as he looked to Cerya, very pointedly. He sat down on the couch and lounged back, arms spread over the top and legs lightly spread as he relaxed. "This little excursion has also shown me that there are exemplary specimens even in the most insignificant of peoples." Cerya nodded. She had expected such from him, but was also somewhat disappointed. In many ways, Cerya viewed Oz as an entirely different man, but she knew also that at heart, he had not changed. But it was not Oz who had changed, but she. Her hatred had burned away, her desire for vengeance sated, and in its wake had left understanding and acceptance. In some ways, Cerya finally understood what Cistina felt. For all the time she had mocked her sister, Cistina had shown more influence on her than either of them would have expected.

"How terribly cliché." Cerya held back her emotions with sarcasm. She did not want Oz to know how her views had changed, if he did not already.

"Meh." Was Oz's reply, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes lightly. Cerya found herself examining him again; he relaxed easily around her, they both did. No longer were they particularly tense in their shared space. It was an odd change; Cerya had never felt like that around a male before. She could accept her sister's presence, but even her father, who marched with Denam to Heim, would cause her some discomfort.

The rest of Cerya's day passed slowly. The servants eventually came with some work for her, but there was little of interest. A few Knights came in to exchange banter, but Oz glared at them and they all left quickly. Cerya was kind, if firm, and she was not entirely unpopular, but her guest was entirely the opposite, and he would drive anyone he disliked from her room. She spent over an hour in a meeting room with merchants to increase trade. Cerya was a merchant's worst nightmare; she did not haggle, she demanded. In wartime, she would not accept the raised prices for imperative supplies. An agreement to supply the Resistance was guaranteed profit for the greedy creatures and Cerya would not allow them to take any more from their coffers than absolutely necessary.

By early evening Oz was restless. He hid it well, but Cerya watched him fidget. He desperately wanted to leave the room and begin his practice session. Cerya was none too thrilled to have him excited about it, for she would have to monitor him. Unlike most days, where Oz would watch her, it was her turn to watch over him. If he made any hostile moves, she would need to subdue and incapacitate him. She doubted he would try to off her, but Cerya also acknowledged the necessity for caution, even when events seemed to proceed in one's own favor. After a time, Oz stared at her with this hopeful look in his eyes as if he begged to go early. The look was so ridiculous on him that Cerya had burst into an uncharacteristic giggling sound that she did not even know she could make.

"Very well." She spoke aloud. It was still early enough that there would be young trainees in the halls, but late enough that they would be exhausted and care little who Cerya's companion was. Cerya got up and walked into her room, where she slid her meeting clothes off. She folded them and put them in a pile at the end of her bed and walked over to her favored battle dress. It was not her night for training, but she would prepare herself - perhaps Oz would allow her to use him as a training dummy? The dress was a bit tight in some places and looser in others; Cerya had lost a bit of muscle mass in her arms, but had gained a bit of weight in her breasts and thighs. She looked more like a toned woman her age and less like someone who spent all of their time in battle; she did not know if she liked the change.

Cerya lifted her spear, its weight and feel familiar. She practiced with it every day, as much as she could, but practice alone could only prepare her so much. She slid it over her back and walked out to the room, where Oz awaited her. He already stood by the door with his boots on and remained unarmed. He offered Cerya an arm to hold her up as she put her boots on, but she ignored it. She would accept his assistance in some ways, but she would not allow him to assist her in actions she could easily do by herself. Boots successfully on, she opened the door, much to Oz's chagrin, and escorted her charge. Oz paid little attention to those who roamed the halls, though many of the servants gawked at him. A few young servants, both male and female, stared and pointed at Cerya and Oz; she could already hear the rumors and they had not even begun yet! Hobyrim had mentioned the servants spoke of her having a partner, but that had been over a scale before, now Cerya reaffirmed them, no matter how ridiculous it seemed to her.

As Cerya expected, the training hall was still filled, to an extent. It was humid from the hot weather as well as the sweating bodies of young warriors. She cringed at the smell and quickly walked over to the door that led to the room she had reserved. It was dimly lit with a single torch; Cerya took the torch and lit the rest of throughout the room in order to provide greater vantage. A small open window in the corner of the room allowed for vantage outdoors as well as allowed fresh air in so that the room would get neither smoky nor stuffy. In the corner was a small chair suited for one, and on the wall was a weapon rack with better quality weapons than those found in the main hall. Oz examined them with a distasteful look on his features.

"What of my armor and axe?" Cerya could hardly believe his entitlement complex! The man never ceased to amaze her with his ridiculous demands. In some way this was even worse than when he, in the dungeons, demanded food, water, and clothing.

Cerya did not bother to hide her agitation. "I cannot return your armor or weapons until you are released." She frowned at him and put her hands on her hips. Sometimes Oz was so childish and lacked foresight. "Certainly you do not expect me to allow you to walk around in the middle of _the Resistance _wearing armor that marks you as Loslorien?"

"Why not? If someone were to comment, you would put them in their place." Oz's words were completely confident, as if he did not doubt what he was saying. It was true, Cerya would silence the ones who spoke, but she was one for prevention; she would prefer if there was no reason for them to speak to her about her companion in the first place.

"Do not push me, Oz. Pick a weapon to practice with, I will watch." Oz grunted in annoyance at Cerya's firm words, but to her pleasure, he listened obediently. It had disturbed her, at first, that he would listen to her when to anyone else he would not flinch. She enjoyed his light submission, but also worried that perhaps he took it too far.

He lifted a few of the blades and balanced them in attempt to find one he preferred. To Cerya's surprise, he seemed skilled in many of the weapons on the rack, from swords and axes, which she knew he was familiar, to greatswords and even the smaller daggers. She was surprised when he even picked up a spear, only to put it back quickly. He looked at the large battleaxe with disgust before finally he finally chose a one-handed blade.

He was a bit rusty, at first, but Oz quickly found his balance. Despite his abrupt, brash manner when he had fought her, he was clearly skilled in the use of lighter weapons to the point it was almost an art. She did not know why he chose such a burly thing as a great-axe when he could use a sword to produce the same results. Perhaps he simply enjoyed how brutish the axe looked; a sword could kill someone with relative easy with a stab, but an axe always caused a painful death. Cerya cringed as her imagination brought forth the image of an axe that hacked people to pieces. The image quickly turned into a memory of the broken limbs ripped off Liberation Front members as they struggled against the Templars. Though she felt disgust and a remnant of anger, she had gotten over the hatred that had defined her being when they first took the castle. She simply felt a calm acceptance that she could not change what had happened; perhaps this was how Denam felt.

Cerya was skilled with a sword, but nowhere near the skill of the man who danced in front of her, not that she had any desire to admit that aloud. She had not admired him earlier, when he exercised, but she certainly was now. His body moved fluidly; she found she enjoyed the way he looked with the formal outfit far more than the armor, even though the formal clothing was nowhere near suited for battle. His muscles teased just below the sleeves and it allowed her to see his heavier, controlled breaths. Though Cerya saw him half-dressed every day, she found the Lodissian's appearance easier to appreciate when he did more than lounge about.

She watched him in silence; his breath relaxed her and his motions to hypnotized her. After a time he stopped and turned around to face Cerya. He seemed more alive than he had been in some time, as if he was rejuvenated by his partial freedom. It was more than just his appearance, his entire demeanor had changed.

"Are you not going to assist me?"

"I'm supposed to monitor you." Cerya pointed out, but it was half-hearted. She did not truly wish to decline, but felt she at least needed to make some argument, if only to appease her inner duty.

"One cannot practice effectively alone." Cerya knew the truth in Oz's statement, but it was not until he continued that she could not decline. "You know as well as I you need to spar as well."

"Very well." Cerya was almost disappointed that she had been so easy to convince, but she also knew there was no point in further argument other than denying him simply because she wished to. Cerya pushed herself off the chair and pulled her spear from her back. Oz frowned.

"No spear or magic." Cerya was confused. "Sword alone for both of us." Her confusion turned into a frown. As much as Cerya did not wish to admit it, with sword she would be at a severe disadvantage against the Templar. At least her magic would have allowed her to enchant her weapons. He might be stronger in his magic, but she was far more flexible. Oz seemed to want to level the field between them, but in truth it was decidedly unbalanced towards his victory. She was very unpracticed with a blade.

"Surely magic would be acceptable?" Cerya allowed Oz to take her spear. He placed it gently against the wall, respecting the weapon.

"We both lack armor" Cerya disagreed, she had always worn her dress into battle. "I fear we will overdo it and the magic will destroy both of our clothes. Besides, neither of us are particularly skilled with Light magic, if I remember correctly." Cerya silently grit her teeth at his playful reminder; he had not complained while she healed him! "Burns from higher level spells are particularly unpleasant."

She conceded his point. What would the healers say if both she and the Knight Commander came into the wards half-dressed and skin red from magic-related burns? It was not only their reaction that worried her, but if Cerya ended up badly wounded, it would likely be considered a hostile action by their prisoner and, even if the war ended soon, he would likely go back into the prisons or even be executed. Cerya did not wish to unintentionally be the cause of Oz's punishment unless he truly did something wrong.

"Sword it is." Cerya looked over the swords in the rack. There were not as many as there were in the larger hall, nor were they the usual quality she had come to expect from her short time in the field with Denam. The spear in the rack was almost a child's toy and she understood Oz's look of distaste. She picked up a medium-sized sword and tested it before she put it back and chose a smaller one. She was unpracticed, it would be better to be safe with a smaller weapon than risk utter, humiliating defeat with a slightly larger one.

As if pleased with her decision, Oz nodded and took on his stance. It was different from one she had been taught; she assumed Lodissians had their own style of swordplay, but she had never really had the chance to examine it. Before Cerya could even lift her sword, Oz began his attack. It quickly became obvious that their main preference in weapons determined their styles: Cerya preferred sharp, tight, evasive motions while Oz used his strength and larger range to his advantage. He was remarkably fast and could keep up with Cerya easily; had it been a real battle, Cerya would have died multiple times over.

Oz did not harm her simply because he wanted to. He showed her the weaknesses in her form and did not hesitate to strike at it in order to help her prevent future mistakes. Despite it being a "sparring" session, Cerya felt it more like a "training session," Oz purposely avoided permanent damage, but even light hits were enough to cause bruises. She could already feel a large bruise form on her abdomen and on her lower arm. She felt as if she might have pulled a muscle in the same calf that had been stabbed. Even with her inexperience, she had been able to land a few clean "hits" on Oz as well, each time she earned a satisfying grunt of pain; he rewarded her with a smile regardless.

"I've a question." Oz relented slightly and took a step back. Cerya did the same, but continued to hold her weapon defensively. Both of their chests rose and fell lightly from the exercise.

"Yes?" Cerya shifted her weight off of her sore leg unconsciously. As she realized she did such, she forced it back, for if she showed such weakness, Oz would take advantage of it.

"Your dress" Cerya frowned. "Do you wear it as a distraction?" Despite the ludicrous statement, Oz seemed completely serious and truly curious.

"What? I wear it because 'tis comfortable, easy to move in, and provides adequate protection. It is not bulky like heavier armor and, in an ideal situation, I would not be hit." Her reasoning was sound, but as she fought Oz, she quickly realized her disadvantages. When she equipped a shorter range weapon it was much easier for her to be hit and even her faster speed did not save her from someone of greater skill.

"So I see, but you seem to have misjudged its length." Oz looked her up and down, his eyes finally rested on her legs. "When you hold your weapon in that particular way, your thigh moves forward. You dress slides up your leg and exposes far too much flesh than is proper for any Lady."

Cerya immediately looked down and saw that he was correct - her dress did crawl up her leg and just barely covered her white undergarments. The red dress pressed into her skin and almost begged for attention from young men, especially with the height of her boots that disallowed her skin from showing other than in that short range. She had been so focused on her efficiency and ease of motion that she had not realized that men, especially adolescents, would find her clothing attractive and could possibly be distracted by the shorter dress. Cistina's longer dress had merit, Cerya had to admit, but she would not give into Oz's taunts so easily.

"For all you speak of 'proper,' you're the one who looks!" Cerya almost felt self-conscious as Oz continued to run his eyes over her. She should have been flattered to have such attention, but his blunt words made her realize that other men had likely done the same.

"I have not once claimed to be 'proper.'" Oz laughed and approached her again, in good spirits. He raised his sword and continued his strikes. They were more precise, as if he was finally warmed up.

Their spar continued for a time until Cerya found herself consistently losing to Oz's greater skill in swordplay. She could read his motions with relative ease from her own experience in battle, but to defend against them was difficult. She was frustrated and angry, not at Oz, but at herself. She felt so humiliated to be unable to do little more than react to the better swordsman.

"Stop." Oz's words were firm as he took a step away. He put his sword back into the rack and looked over Cerya, who had lowered her weapon. "You're skilled, but you wield your sword as if it were a spear when defending. Remember your lack of range, for you leave yourself open." Cerya turned away at the scolding. She appreciated the lesson, but did not enjoy having her weakness thrown in her face. Oz approached. "May I?" Cerya nodded with questioning look on her features.

Oz walked behind Cerya, his arms encircled her. He no longer smelled of Cerya's wash, instead he took on a masculine odor from his workout. It was not unpleasant, but Cerya felt odd at having him so near to her. He was remarkably warm and almost radiated heat as he held her arms and lifted them up, sword in hand. As Cerya held the position, Oz got a bit closer, he pushed his chest into her back until she could feel every breath he took. He lowered his head down beside her face and his arm went to her leg. He murmured something about balance that Cerya couldn't hear, too distracted by Oz's presence to care about what he spoke. She let her weight fall into the position Oz led her to; it was not uncomfortable or even unfamiliar, Cerya had simply started holding her weight as she did with her spear out of habit. No wonder she had such problems!

She was about to thank him when she felt Oz's hand slide up her dress, under the warm material. She did not pull away, for Oz's other arm still encircled her. Her breath quickened in shock and worry as his hand made its way over her left breast and down into the dress. She had not bound her breasts, as unless she was truly in battle is was unnecessary, so his hands were easily able to find her flesh. His hand cupped the breast and his fingers teased the nipple and areola, as well as traced gentle patterns that made her shiver. He rubbed himself against the side of her face and used his mouth to remove a stray hair that had fallen between them.

"Oz. . ." Cerya was alarmed at how breathy she sounded. Her confidence was shattered at the warmth that had started the spread through her abdominal region. She was embarrassed at how easily she was aroused, as if her body had sought this for some time. Cerya desperately wanted to continue, but her mind screamed otherwise. _He is a prisoner!_ - He was her friend. _I do not want him! _- Her body told her quite the opposite. _Stop being so irrational!_

"I am tired of pretending to be obedient." His mouth was next to her ear and his voice was little more than a whisper. His tone was dark and possessive; she had not heard such from him other than in battle. His right arm had made its way up to her undergarments and slid them down a bit, which gave him access to her warmed clitoris. His left hand no longer remained down her dress, instead he ran it down her arm. Cerya felt odd, since she still held her sword. Oz seemed bored by the continued pretense of training and used his free hand to take it from her and toss it across the room. Cerya did not see where it landed, nor did she care. "You are mine." The words caused her to shudder.

"If you think I am just going to submit and -" Despite her body telling her otherwise, Cerya's mind took control for a moment. Her words did not hold their usual strength, instead they had a distracted tone. She closed her eyes for a moment as she firmed herself to Oz's touches. With her newly free hands, she placed them over Oz's in her undergarments in attempt to stop him. Instead of listening to her non-verbal cues, he used his own hands to take hers. His fingers were wet from their experimenting in her private region.

"I think quite the opposite. I do not want you to submit. Your struggle will make this more pleasurable for both of us." Cerya gasped as Oz pulled her across the room forcefully. Both of their hands slipped from under her dress as he pushed her against the cool stone wall.

"The moment I give you freedom you make me wish to take it away!" Despite their intention of showing frustration, Cerya's words came out without sting. Oz ignored them as he removed Cerya's boots, his fingers ran down her legs. She could almost feel the trail, as if it burned in response to his touch. Her mouth was dry and her eyes wide, her mouth lightly open from both her quick breaths and shock at Oz's actions. Cerya pressed hard against the wall, as if it were an escape.

"I tire of these games we play." As he stood, he again put his hand under her dress, this time he pulled it up and over her head, exposing her skin. She was not ashamed of her body in many circumstances, but she found the way Oz's eyes roamed over her pale flesh to give her conflicting emotions. It made her feel good; to be desired, wanted, and lusted for, yet she was also not sure how to react. _Why _did she enjoy it? What did she want him to do? How was she supposed to respond? As if mimicking her thoughts, Oz continued as he began to remove his own clothes, boots first. "For such a determined woman, you're obviously blind to your own desires."

"Do not assume to know how I feel." Her words lacked any intention but to buy time for herself. Events had quickly spiraled out of control; a moment ago Cerya had happily sparred with her companion, now he removed his trousers as he pushed her against the wall with his weight and she was powerless to stop him, if she even wanted to do so.

"If you did not want this, I would already be on the floor under your blade." The truth rang through her and she could not deny it. It was more than her body that desired this. She had long accepted Oz as a companion and, more recently, a friend. Even with her usual confidence, Oz was correct; Cerya would not have initiated the contact on her own, but if she was willing to accept it, it meant that she did not find the idea distasteful.

In response, Cerya put her hands under Oz's shirt and helped him lift it over his head. He breathed heavily and brought his forehead down to rest onto hers. They met eyes for a long moment before Oz ran his hands back down her body to her undergarments. Cerya cautiously put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Oz's skin was slick was sweat, likely from more than their spar. She ran her hands up and down his back, enjoying the feel of his firm muscles under her fingers. She stepped out of her undergarments with Oz's assistance. He made great effort to stroke her thighs as he brought the underclothes down, small tingles danced across and down her legs until they reached the floor. Oz tossed the undergarments to the side, but with her face close to him, she did not see where they landed, but knew it could not be far.

Cerya did not have a chance to help Oz with his own undergarments, as he quickly shed them while he kneeled below her. As he stood again, her arms encircled him. Finally naked, Oz pressed against her and put his hands against the wall above her head as he looked down. He was not intimidating, but the way he looked at her, with his lusty eyes and partially open lips, took her breath away. Cerya brought a hand to his face and ran her fingers down it softly until she reached his neck and shoulders. Oz, too, lowered his arms around her and pushed her more firmly into the wall. She could feel his arousal against her, but neither did anything about, for they were too interested in the exploration of each other's bodies.

Oz did not bother to meet her lips, instead his mouth searched her body and ran trails of both small nibbles and harsh bites across her. His hands roamed and Cerya's unintentionally did the same to him, in doing so they only provoked each other further. Oz seemed to enjoy Cerya's firmer hold on him, for it seemed like more of a command than his own lighter, feathery touches. For all he spoke of pain, he knew just as much about where to touch her to most easily produce a pleasant reaction. His touch sent a warm fire through her and caused her lower abdominal regions to tingle in pleasure that she could not stop.

Cerya's touches were shy but commanding. In a surprising bout of impatience, she ran a hand down between Oz's legs and grasped at his erection. She clutched her hand over it firmly and drew it back and forth. Oz immediately withdrew lightly and closed his eyes. His own touches slowed as he enjoyed Cerya's "massage." Cerya found Oz's hesitation more satisfying than his touch, as it gave her a control over him that she never had before. If she chose to, she could stop or continue his pleasure at a whim; to have such control, and to cause such a reaction, satisfied her. Never before had she felt so wanted or desired.

"Wait." Oz's voice lightly gasped out. Cerya removed her hand and Oz took it. In a surprisingly gentle motion, he kissed the hand that had been massaging his penis before he encircled her and pulled her from the wall. "I admit, I am. . .unfamiliar with such common acts as this." Oz's hand found its way behind Cerya's neck and he tiled her head up and lightly kissed it. It was not passionate or even heated, but instead the gentle, delicate touch held his emotions. "I've never taken these acts so seriously." Oz gave an uncomfortable chuckle; Cerya thought it terribly endearing. "I do not wish to make a mistake. Usually when I do such, I desire my partner to entirely submit to my will but with you. . ."

Cerya understood and nodded quietly. She had panicked at Oz's touch at first, but he, too, did not understand what went on between them. Lust was common and easily satisfied, but Cerya did not easily give herself up, no matter how attractive her partner.

"Perhaps it's best not to think on it." Did Oz not understand? She did not wish to speak; her body cried out to continue. But, as this seemed to be meaningful to him, she did not force him to continue.

Oz panicked for a moment and released her. His arousal was still evident by his red face and heavy breaths, but he looked about, as if something was on his mind. "My sister enjoyed taking a whip to her males." Oz's look was very serious. "I would allow you to do such to me, if you would like."

Cerya's eyes widened. There were many hidden implications in his statement. Did he assume she would want to cause him harm? Did he assume she took pleasure in punishing him? But, more than that, Cerya's mind focused on what was now an older memory. Oz disliked pain and did his best to avoid it. From Cerya, he had been willing to accept it; she did not know whether to be frightened or flattered at the sentiment, but she knew she did not care. Her lust made her thoughts thick.

Cerya pretended to not understand Oz's words. She could not handle the devotion he was willing to give. "I no longer desire revenge, Oz. Why would I want to hurt you?"

Oz's expression saddened for a moment and he laughed lightly before he again pushed her against the wall. Between kisses, he murmured as he put his hand between her legs and rubbed at her vagina with a finger. "I forget, sometimes, that not everyone takes pleasure in the same acts as I." Cerya's vagina lubricated at Oz's continued touch, and allowed his fingers a more slick massage. "But you will come to enjoy it, someday." Cerya doubted that very much, but declined to say any more, for his caress distracted her.

The wall was cool and hard against her back, but Cerya barely noticed it. Oz had removed his fingers and instead put a knee between her legs to spread them. Cerya balanced her weight over him and trusted him to not drop her. Oz used his free hand to guide himself into her, her weight caused the motion to be rougher than either intended. Cerya gasped lightly and squirmed atop his knee to get into a more comfortable position on top of his erection. Oz released his knee and used his weight to support her against the wall. In turn, Cerya's legs curled around his waist and pulled him close.

Oz did not bother with any more warm-ups, once he was inside her, he sought pleasure. Cerya had to move her head forward so that it would not hit the wall at his quick, fast motions. She gasped unintentionally and brought her arms up and around his neck. Her breasts pressed against Oz's chest and lightly moved up and down against him at their shared sweat. His fast thrusts quickly lost their independence, the feel of each merged into a hot pressure that overwhelmed her rational thought. She gasped lightly as her heart rate quickened. No longer did her body register the cool wall behind her, instead it focused on the sensations Oz caused: the way his breath came out heavily, in time with his pushes against her, how her hands grasped at his flesh and almost begged him to continue, and how her hips moved, instinctively in time with his.

Her body demanded release slowly, rather than all at once. She felt almost as if she were climbing a mountain, her breaths became more ragged and her gasps louder as she got closer to the peak of her climax. Her hair had long since lost any semblance of order and clung to her face in her sweat. Her legs stretched out and her feet contracted, muscles tensed as her aroused body completed its orgasm. Oz continued for a few moments after Cerya was finished, apparently well used to extended sex. More likely, Cerya admitted, he simply masturbated more frequently than she, for she had held her lust in for far too long. No longer did his thrusts bring in the warm tingles, instead they produced a rather raw pressure, but she did not wish to stop Oz. Along with her own satisfaction, and the light-headedness it caused, she found she enjoyed the soft sounds Oz made and the way his breath warmed her in the cool, dark room. Cerya allowed her body to move with Oz's as he finished, his own face and eyes closed in pleasure. His muscles tensed around her and she knew the moment he came just as he did, and he leaned his head back with a gasp. He removed himself slowly from her, as if he did not care to, the sticky semen dripped from the tip of his penis and down her leg.

Oz gently allowed Cerya to fall to the ground. She wobbled a bit, disoriented, and unintentionally clung to the red-head as she regained her balance. As she tried to pull away, Oz's arms once again held her close and refused to allow her to move. She did not struggle, as she found she lacked the will to. In the back of her mind, she questioned herself on why she had allowed such to happen, but unlike many times in the past, she had a reason for her actions. She used the same words Oz had, long ago:  
><em>"I wanted to."<em>

* * *

><p>The rumors started well before Cerya received any official word from Denam.<p>

_Heim is ours!  
>Brantyn is dead!<br>Lodis has withdrawn!  
>Loslorien has split - Resistance forces hunt remains in the former King's gardens!<br>Soon we will have a new Queen!_

Even without an announcement from Cerya, the Resistance members in Phidoch rejoiced. Cerya had been cautious of the rumors, at first, before she finally gave in as they quickly became more and more frequent on a daily basis. It felt almost like a dream; Denam had finished everything Cerya could not. He killed Brantyn, saved Valeria, and most importantly of all, reunited her with her family. Though her sisters and father would not return for some time, perhaps they might even stay in Heim, it was as close to a fairy tale ending as she could expect. Cerya's biggest regret was that she could not take Brantyn's head herself. She supposed Sherri deserved it more than she.

Her other regret happened to be the man who lay beside her. After their first night together, if possible, Oz became even more possessive. He had snuck into her bed to sleep beside her on at least three occasions and openly threatened one of the Knights who had spent too long staring at Cerya after he had finished their reports. When Cerya worked, he would often touch her to distract her; much to her shame, it often worked and he quickly learned where exactly to stroke Cerya if he wanted her attention, even for simple things such as talking.

At one point, Cerya had been so frustrated that she demanded Oz answer why he continued to tease her so. He had replied with a simple "Because I enjoy it. Sister never allowed me to touch her, perhaps you understand why?" as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her and took great pleasure in it. Cerya long ago decided that Ozma had the right idea about many, many things that pertained to her brother.

In direct contrast to her pleasant mood and the wonderful news, the weather was fierce. During the night, thunder rolled through the hills and rain poured against their windows. In the day, the wind gusts were so powerful that Cerya feared trade would be interrupted completely due to wagons falling over. The sky was a bleak grey color and the castle halls were often humid from the wet exterior. The weather was likely the reason for the delayed news from Denam.

"Oz, 'tis time to rise." Cerya commanded. He did not remove his arms; he instead moved closer and pressed his chest against her to prevent her from leaving the bed. The only sound he made was a muffled "mph" that she took as disagreement. The early morning air was chill without her blanket and the dark sky just outside her window made her empathize with Oz's desire to remain, but unlike him, she had work to do and could not laze her day away. Cerya did not bother being gentle, for being gentle got her nowhere with Oz, she instead slid out of her side of the bed, even against Lodissian's grasping arms. It was a brief struggle, but the more awake and determined woman won the battle.

Cerya quickly poked her head out of the door and called a nearby servant to fill her bathwater. She shivered at the cold in her thin nightshift and fled back to her room where the remains of her fireplace's embers burned. She poured herself a glass of water that remained on her table from the night previous and took a drink. As she did so, she heard the quiet footsteps of the half-dressed Oz, whose eyes were slightly glazed and hair mussed, as he followed her. Cerya greeted him with a nod of acknowledgment until a loud knock sounded immediately after. Both she and Oz exchanged a look; very rarely did anyone disturb her so early in the morning. Oz fled back into Cerya's bedchamber in order to bring her a weapon for defense. After a moment, dagger firmly in hand, Cerya replied to the persistent knocking.

_"_Enter." She did not care that she was half-dressed, if someone was to disturb her, it was either someone who sought to kill her or someone with very important news that she could not ignore. Fortunately for both Oz and Cerya, this man was the latter; Cerya recognized it as one of Denam's shadows. He looked wet, tired, and downright miserable.

"News from the Commander, Lady." He bowed. Cerya acknowledged his bow with a nod of her own. Cerya and Oz spoke at the same time.

"Get out." His tone was venomous and dangerous, his now-alert eyes even more so. His aura was remarkably commanding despite his disheveled state. From him, this was not an abnormal reaction; Oz often spoke rudely to those who entered Cerya's room.  
>"Thank you. Please, go rest." Cerya could barely hide the excitement in her words; her pleasure contrasted with Oz's harsher reply.<p>

The man looked back and forth between the two as if he registered what was going on. Cerya, too, understand the implications of a shadow, _one who gathers information,_ seeing her with a Loslorien Templar. She would deal with Denam's scolding, if it ever occurred, later. Cerya did not bother with the specialized opener and instead used the tip of her dagger to remove the seal that marked it as Denam's. The words were expected, but very welcome nonetheless. She read them as the shadow quickly left the room upon her dismissal.

_Heim falls, Lodis withdraws.  
>Loslorien split; rebels withdrawn into the Hanging Gardens, reason unknown. Will hunt them immediately, prepare for the main force's return. Heim will become future base of operations.<br>Await further orders._

A bright smile filled her features. Denam's writing was efficient and lacked elaboration, or even his normal encoding – which signified it had been written in a hurry, but the confirmation was reassuring. Cerya frowned as Oz looked over her shoulder at the note. It was her mistake, for not being more careful with the note, but she would have to scold him about looking at confidential information at a later point.

"A split?" Oz murmured. "What have I missed in my absence?" He spoke more to himself than to Cerya.

"Why would they have gone to the Hanging Gardens?" Cerya looked to him curiously, unsure as to whether or not Oz would answer. To her surprise, Oz greatly elaborated.

"'Twas our true purpose here. We care little who rules the isles, but great power rests in their depths. If the High Commander has fled and there is a rebellion, I can imagine the reasons for it. Martym and Barbas are the only ones who would do such; they care for little more than glory. Barbaric."

"You are surprisingly forward." Cerya replied cautiously. Another soft knock sounded and Cerya called for entry. This time, the servants waited with her morning wash water, as expected. Cerya fled back into her bed chamber and dragged Oz back with her. It usually took some time for their water to be filled and she did not wish for the entire castle to see her half-dressed state.

"I've no need to hide it. Marym and Barbas, if it is them, are brash. We could have returned and the Islanders would have had no idea why we chose to do so. Instead, in their greed, they reveal what we seek. They've made a bad situation worse, the fools." Oz paused, as if in thought. "Not that Barbas deserved the position anyway, he will be no loss to us."

Cerya was unsure as to how to reply. Instead she lightly placed the letter down on the bed and sat back down. Oz remained standing and paced the room. The air between them became tense and uncomfortable, both unwilling to discuss what came next. Cerya hated the hesitation, it was unlike her. As she had before, and she would many times in the future, she broke the silence and spoke words neither of them wished to hear, her voice quiet and eyes downcast.

"Loslorien has fled. You are no longer our prisoner. What will you do now?" Oz stopped his pacing, but did not turn towards her. Instead he slowly walked over to the window, which he pretended to take great interest in. Even from bed, Cerya could tell the weather remained unchanged and was not particularly interesting; the wind continued to howl and would not stop any time soon.

". . ." Oz did not reply immediately. Cerya thought he had no intention to until, a few minutes later, he finally spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. He did not wish for the servants to hear. "I am conflicted. I never expected this to happen."

Cerya knew what he referred to. She, too had, avoided thinking on what the future entailed. She had gotten so used to his presence, even his companionship, that it was strange to think of entering her room without him being there to greet her. For all of the time they had spent together, it seemed almost an eternity, in truth she had only known him for little more than three scales. In that time, Cerya's emotions had spiraled from hatred for Oz, to sadness for Cistina, to understanding, to acceptance, and finally to friendship. In contrast, Oz had barely changed at all; he still held much of his loathing and he had remained imprisoned, even if only loosely. Even the one thing Cerya had tried to change in him, his constant reliance on her and how he used her as a replacement for his sister, had not worked. Instead, he had only gotten closer and clung to her more heavily as time passed.

"You will return to Lodis?" Cerya replied, in hopes that he would move on with his life. She, and in turn Ozma's memory, could not be a central part of him forever; he was a grown man, he had to make his own decisions.

"Yes. No." He was obviously conflicted. "I must, but I cannot." He still did not turn to Cerya, but his head leaned down and he no longer looked outside, only at the stone that was the windowsill.

"You've betrayed no-one, you should be able to return without being labeled traitor." Cerya did not move over to him, to do so would have been to promote his attachment. She said the words in as apathetic way possible in order to push him away. Cerya admitted it hurt a bit to do so, but it was better for both of them if he returned home. Cerya, too, had unintentionally clung to his presence, but for the betterment of both of them, she would accept his departure.

"But if I do so, I betray you." He replied stubbornly.

"You are your own man. I am not going to keep you here any longer, you are free to leave so long as you harm no one." Cerya replied with firmness. Neither Cerya nor Oz were particularly subtle, and when Cerya spoke such, he did not understand the underlying meaning of her words. She desperately tried to convince him that he could not rely on her forever, but he either ignored her intonation, pretended he didn't understand it, or did not hear it all together. After another pause, Oz turned around, finally, as if he had made a decision. As he walked back into the outer, guest, room where he normally slept, he spoke his reply.

"Lodis will return, make no mistake. Your war is not over yet." From the room he called out "A moment, if you would?"

Cerya had little choice but to do as he asked. She heard him moving about and did her best to ignore him. Oz was so odd sometimes and, when he wanted to, he made it difficult to predict what he intended. Cerya's mind whispered softly that it was not that he made it difficult to predict, but that Cerya simply did not wish to do so.

Oz came back a moment later with something in his hand. He stood closely in front of Cerya and pulled her hand forward. In it, he dropped a necklace. Cerya examined it, the cool metal appeared to be a white gold. She did not recognize the shape or pattern, but Oz apparently did. The chain was well crafted and Cerya could tell an item of this quality was very expensive. Even more expensive were the memories that were likely ingrained within it. That Oz had handed it to Cerya held terrifying implications.

"This necklace. . .it was your sister's." It was not a question, for that was the only place he could have gotten it from. Hobyrim had given Oz the small package of Ozma's belongings.

"It was given to her by Hobyrim on the eve of their announcement of their engagement." Cerya was shocked; Oz had mentioned their engagement once before, but she had thought little of it then, for her mind had been on other subjects. What else had Hobyrim hid from them? Did Denam know? Oz continued despite Cerya's curiosity. He had a bright, confident smile on his face, which was entirely opposite of what she would have expected as she considered the importance of the object he had given her. "So you see, you now have something of Ozma's. I can't just leave you. Quite the opposite! I might just have to take you, a thief, back to my family and show them just how badly you've dishonored my sister!" Cerya stared blankly at Oz for a moment until she realized he was teasing. His smile turned serious as he awaited her response. Cerya swallowed as she understood the intention of his words and chose her own reply carefully. Her mind no longer screamed to try and have Oz leave on his own; he was beyond that now, instead she simply grasped lightly at the necklace.

"You said it yourself, Lodis will return. I will not abandon my people for this" Cerya hesitated. ". . .lust." Cerya refused to admit it was more than lust that drove her to share Oz's bed, even if she knew it to be a lie.

"I am not asking you to. Lodis _will _return; as will you. Think of it as an extended vacation, perhaps? For all of the tedium you endured in managing this ridiculous castle." Cerya finally released a light smile and she cursed him for understanding her so well. A vacation sounded nice, but she could not accept. She must help her country get back onto its own feet.

"I belong here."

"You belong with me." Oz was firmer in his reply. She recognized the tone, it was possessive and stubborn and it would likely be impossible to change his mind. As if to illustrate his point, Oz sat down beside her and put his arm around her waist. Cerya almost instinctually pulled away, but Oz held her back.

"_You _belong in Lodis. You dislike the isles and their people." Oz could not deny her point, Cerya knew, for he had said such himself.

"What if, by duty, I am required to return?" He referred to Lodis' return to the isles, she assumed. Oz leaned his head against her shoulder and pulled her close. Cerya's reply was quiet and subdued.

"Even against you, I will fight to my last breath, if I must." The thought of fighting Oz was almost unbearable, but to protect her family, she would do so.

"I will not allow it to come to that." Oz moved closer and put his other arm around her shoulder, he completely faced her now.

"You may not have a choice." Cerya pretended to ignore Oz's advances.

"If you fight, I will protect you." he replied stubbornly, his lips brushed her cheek. Oz was remarkably deluded at times, for his words made no sense.

Cerya did not want, or need, protection, or so she told herself stubbornly, but she knew she could not survive everything on her own. "Even against other Lodissians?" Cerya did not want Oz to betray his country. To her surprise, Oz stopped his gentle kisses and put his hand to the side of her face, turning her to look at him.

"Just as my honor requires me to fight for my country, so does it demand I fight for my wife."

For a moment, Cerya had thought she misheard. She played the words in her head at least three times before she fully grasped their meaning. A small blush covered her features. "What are you saying?" Cerya hissed as loudly as she could without disturbing the servants in the other room. She could not believe Oz's proposal; she was not yet ready to accept such a relationship with him. "You certainly don't expect me-"

"The conclusion is obvious. Your country is safe now and you have shown me your people as promised. It is only fair that I, too, get to show you mine. Perhaps you will come to love them as I do." The look in Oz's eyes was so hopeful that Cerya knew she could not say no. To see him crushed again as he was when Ozma died would tear her apart. "If Valeria becomes a target, I will return you to your Islands where you may continue to defend them." Oz's last words held a spite that she had not heard in her direction for some time. "But once you see my home, I cannot imagine why you would return to this miserable, dirty hovel other than to spend time with your family."

"You make it sound so easy." Cerya whispered. What would they think of her? Her sisters, perhaps, would accept her, as would their father. But Denam? Catiua? Would the entire country see her as a traitor to her people? What would the Lodissians think of her? That she was some exotic wench that one of their nobles took to satisfy his desires? Cerya did not want to live like that; she could live with spite and hatred, but to be mocked would be intolerable.

"What is so unbelievable?" Oz was no fool; he knew the social stigma that would likely be attached to her. But, as Cerya thought on it, he, too, was willing to accept the stigma. It would not only be her, but him who suffered as well. Oz was willing to sacrifice just as much, if not more, for her happiness - he would even risk his position by protecting her - in battle, if necessary. Cerya had been so selfish, how could she not have seen it?

"How do you expect me to react? Cuddle against you and profess my secret, undying affection?" Cerya finally smiled in return, but her words were sarcastic. Her mind had been made up when Oz had given her the necklace; she had only been delaying the inevitable. She had tried stubbornly to deny herself, but perhaps she simply wished for happiness.

"'Twould be a start." Oz pulled her head into his bare chest, finally enclosing her completely. "Besides, are we not already 'cuddling'?"

"How can you know you want to spend your life with me?" Her voice was softly muffled by their close proximity. The warmth of her breaths filled the small space between them.

"I can't. Unless I'm willing to take the risk, I will never know. But. . .I already took the risk. I remained with you when we both know I could have left long ago. The rest is up to you." Oz laid his chin onto the top of her head. In the distance she heard the servants close the door, which signified they had finished filling the bath.

"You're so confident." Cerya started, her own words surprisingly weak, even to herself, but as she spoke, they became stronger and she quickly reverted back to her normal, stronger tone. "I can't say I understand my feelings yet, but. . .you're right. Sitting around worrying about what "might" happen and what "could" be is pointless." Cerya had always been a woman of action, she would not let others do something if she could do it herself. Feeling more confident, she lightly pulled away from Oz, who released her with ease. She stood from the bed and held her hand out to her sitting companion.

"I-I've not hesitated like this before." Her light show of weakness told Oz more than any words could. "Without taking the first step, I will never complete my journey; I do not yet know the destination, but I think I would like to walk the path with you, even if only for a time."

Oz said nothing in return as he took her hand lightly. Cerya grasped Ozma's necklace in her other hand as she guided Oz to the steaming bath. The war had ended, but Cerya felt as if her life was only beginning.

* * *

><p><em>Love occurs when you accept someone despite faults and disagreements. It doesn't happen immediately and, when it does, it's impossible to place when it starts.<em>

I wonder how Cerya will react to Oz's collection of slave girls?


	15. Feel: OzmaHobyrim

This is pure, unabashed fluff. If that's not your thing, turn in the other direction. There is no point to this other than being a short little romantic scene between Hobyrim and Ozma.

I've wanted to write this one for a while, it takes place at an unspecified time post-game 4L.

_**Feel**_

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><p>The rain had stopped. If he judged by the bird calls and mist that permeated through the open window, it was still very early morning. The waves crashed in the distance, almost as if the ocean breathed. Each inhale the water flowed back, and each exhale the waves shattered as they hit the high cliffs, constant, never ending. The normally salty ocean air smelled also of fresh rain, the mud and plants mixed into it to create a fresh, if somewhat harsh, aroma. Though it had stormed throughout the night, the air was humid, but not so much that it stuck to him.<p>

Hobyrim took in the cool atmosphere with a placid silence. He very rarely had time to relax; his journey had been long and arduous and it still remained unfinished. He had foiled his brother's and Tartaros' plans, but he was further away from them than he ever had been before. Hobyrim's presence had been revealed to the Dark Knights and they would be on alert, Balxephon would likely even send hunters in attempt to kill him. As dismal the situation, Hobyrim had never felt happier. He had thwarted Loslorien, helped save the Valerian islands with his newfound companions, and had found the woman he had long thought lost to him. As if on cue, soft footsteps sounded from behind him. They attempted to be soundless, and to a normal man they would have been, but Hobyrim's well developed hearing allowed for him to sense much quieter footsteps than most humans.

From the way they balanced, the steps were obviously feminine. He was entirely unsurprised at Ozma's approach; she was constantly at his side and when he woke early she always dragged him back to bed. It was not that Ozma disliked being alone, for she of all people could handle herself, but she constantly berated Hobyrim for his severity when isolated from her. Hobyrim often fell into silence, absorbed by his thoughts and the world around him and Ozma worried that he would end up hurt from some unknown attacker. Her worry sent warmth through him, but Hobyrim had taken care of himself for long enough that he knew how to avoid danger. Much of the time when Hobyrim appeared impassive he instead paid intent attention to the world around him and likely knew more about his surroundings than Ozma did.

Ozma did not stop as she approached him, instead she encircled her arms around his waist and pressed herself against his back. Hobyrim stiffened slightly, still unused to such familiar and constant contact, even by someone he loved so dearly. His companion was normally a calm, controlled woman, but there were times around him that she was delicate, even frightened. She had lost much and, Hobyrim knew, to regain it and lose it again would tear her apart. Her actions often spiked dramatically, from passionate and loving to silent and withdrawn; Hobyrim much preferred the former. Hobyrim leaned into her and grasped at her hands in order to close the distance between them.

Despite her noble upbringing, Ozma's hands were far from those of a soft, weak girl who sat at home and waited for her husband to return. Hobyrim could feel the calluses on her palms as he ran his thumbs over them. Her fingers were softer, but the top of her hand seemed to be covered by small bumps that Hobyrim assumed to be scars from various weapons, possibly even her own. His own hands were more weathered than hers, but Ozma did not seem to mind, as she let him run his fingers over her. Hobyrim pulled Ozma's arms more tightly around him; her warmth enveloped him, in firm contrast to the cool morning air that entered from the window in front of him. Ozma brought her head forward and placed it on his shoulder, her cheek on his. The light wind from the sea breeze caused her hair to brush against his face, but it was a slight touch rather than an annoyance.

"So this is where you ran off too." Ozma's voice was little more than a whisper. So close to his ear, it almost sounded as if she spoke entirely aloud. "You needn't rise so early." Hobyrim and Ozma had taken some time to themselves after leaving Valeria. Both were exhausted, mentally and physically, and their small side trip too a remote village near the sea was meant to relax and calm them both. Ozma had described the village to him as they entered: she had said that it was cool and dark, with an overhanging mist and deep grey clouds. The ground had been wet and gave slightly under his feet and the air had a constant humidity. Hobyrim had only been able to tell the time of day based on the chill and how thick the air was. In the morning, the air was thin and cool, but later on in the day it became warm and heavy. Ozma had particularly marveled at the plant life, as plants crawled up the sides of the large stone buildings.

For Hobyrim, their time in the small town had opposite of its intended effect. Unfamiliar areas made him nervous and he jumped often at sounds he accidentally perceived as threats. He rarely ever went to inns, as whenever he heard footsteps from a lower levels or voices from a room across from his own, he could not sleep. Out of habit, Hobyrim normally slept in the wilderness where any such sounds truly were a threat. Ozma had been patient with Hobyrim's odd traits, even though he had felt some subtle annoyance that radiated from her from time to time when he woke her from her rest. She never complained, but she did scold him his paranoid behavior.

"Go back to sleep." Hobyrim replied just as quietly. Ozma didn't move at his words, instead she pushed herself closer and rubbed her face against his. He could not tell what her features held, but he felt a warm contentment. His lips curved slightly upward in a rare smile; just as Ozma, he had never expected to feel such happiness again.

"Hmm. How unpleasant." She seemed to speak to herself more than Hobyrim, as her words had nothing to do with their conversation. She stopped her light nuzzle and moved her face away slightly. From her motion, he could tell she looked at him. Neither she nor Hobyrim removed their hands.

"Ozma?" Hobyrim asked curiously. Her behavior was out of place, and she had not acted as such before with him. Usually she enjoyed her time beside him, with gentle touches of their hands, legs, bodies, and faces. Hobyrim knew Ozma's body intimately enough simply from their experimentation that he could almost visualize her appearance in his head. He wondered if her hair was the same color it had been when they had been younger, and if her eyes still held such warmth.

Ozma pulled away lightly. She did not move far, but enough that she could face him. Hobyrim turned in her direction to give her the appearance that he paid attention. It was an odd trait even the kindest of people fell prey to: they assumed that because Hobyrim did not look at them, he paid little or no attention to their words. It was quite the opposite, for Hobyrim had no need to look speakers as he listened, but he humored them by turning his face towards them, if only out of respect. He could feel Ozma's gaze almost as if it were her touch. Her fingers ran down the side of his face lightly, as if to emphasize her words.

"How am I to caress you if your face has such rough hairs on it?" Her tone was disapproving. As if to prove her point, she grasped Hobyrim's hand and brought it up to his face. She moved his fingers up and down over his lower cheek, where he could feel new hair growth. It did not feel out of the ordinary to him, for it was a simple beard that he kept as well groomed as he could without his sight to aid him. He did not understand what Ozma implied or the issue she had with it. She had never mentioned his facial hair before and he had assumed she simply did not care.

"I don't understand. It has never been an issue before." Hobyrim mused that perhaps Ozma's mood was sour due to her lack of sleep. If Hobyrim's return to bed would calm her, he would have to do so, at least for a time. Hobyrim gently pulled away from Ozma, but still held her hand in attempt to guide them both back to their shared bed. The room was small enough that Hobyrim had no issues with navigation.

"Where are you going?" Ozma demanded. She held his hand in hers quite firmly, and did not allow Hobyrim to continue. She remained near the small open window and radiated an air of annoyance mixed with authority. Hobyrim could tell she planned something, or at least wanted to get her way. Ozma would give everything for him without a heartbeat of hesitation, but there were times that she could be remarkably stubborn and demanded to get what she desired. When she did such, it was almost impossible to change her mind.

"I'm returning to our bed." Hobyrim knew better than Ozma did that sleep was exactly what they both needed. She would be far less moody when they awoke. Ozma continued to hold firm and refused to release Hobyrim's hand.

"No." Ozma finally released some of the pressure as she walked forward to meet Hobyrim. She grasped his shoulders and he let her turn him in the direction she wished to guide him. "You are going to shave."

"That isn't necessary, Ozma." Hobyrim was not angry; he simply did not understand why Ozma was so persistent about what he deemed to be a small and insignificant trait that all adult human males shared. It was not as if he were dirty! After a moment of thought, Hobyrim acceded that Ozma was not demanding much from a simple request to shave; he might not agree that it was necessary, but it was not a large request, either. Hobyrim finally nodded his acquiescence and allowed Ozma to lead him to their bath chamber. The room was not steamy or humid as it was when water filled the large tub, but it smelled of mold from the prolonged water saturation in both the bathtub and from the wet outdoor environment. Hobyrim felt his way around the small chamber until he found the side of the tub, which he leaned on.

"Wait here." Hobyrim did not have much of a choice but to listen to his companion. She released his hands lightly and her footsteps sounded into their bed chamber, where Hobyrim's few possessions remained in a small bag. Ozma's warm touch left a lingering feeling all over his body, as if she held an innate magic within her fingers. She _was _Moh Glacius, perhaps their family did have a spell they passed down that could cause such an effect - more likely it was simply because Hobyrim enjoyed her touch and sought more of it. From a distance, Hobyrim could hear Ozma walk about as she dug through their bags. The light shuffles distracted him from the sounds of footsteps from the lower floors where the owners of the inn prepared the morning meal for their guests.

A moment later, Ozma's steps returned in his direction; they were no longer light as they had been earlier, for she made no attempt to quiet them. He felt her presence as she entered the room and she continued to move around him. He felt her kneel and place objects on the floor beside him. He guessed they were a pitcher of water, a cloth, and likely his small shaving blade, from both the sound they made when they hit the floor and from his own experience. Without a word, Ozma touched her hands to his shoulders and again turned him so that he was over their bathing tub. She was not normally so touchy that she controlled his every motion, but there were times when she enjoyed Hobyrim's reliance. Only from her would Hobyrim accept the overbearing protectiveness, even if he certainly did not need it.

From his side, he heard Ozma dip a cloth into the pitcher of water he had rightly assumed she brought with her. She wrung it out lightly to stop the water's splash across the floor and he heard a light squeak that he seemed to be wet soap. Ozma put her arms around him and wiped the cool, soapy rag over his face, a bit of water dripped from it onto his trousers, the tub, and the floor below him. The rag smelled of the town's signature flower; Ozma had been quite passionate about the scent, but it was far too strong for him. He kept his mouth closed and held his breath as the rag covered his features. She was a bit clumsy and unfamiliar with such washes, but he found the small mistakes she made only endeared him more. She was so perfect about everything she did that when she was not entirely efficient, it was almost an event in itself.

His face was slimy and did not bubble dramatically or drip from the water; Ozma had done well in her mixture. Ozma put the rag to the side quickly and picked up another item, likely his small shaving blade. When she put her fingertips under his chin, he knew he guessed correctly. Head now held high for easy access, Hobyrim stiffened at Ozma's first touch with the blade. It was not that he distrusted her, quite the opposite, but she could not have nearly as much experience as he with shaving. A few small cuts would be easy to heal with minimal Light magic, but they produced a painful sting nonetheless.

The cool blade ran across his skin lightly, the edge pressed just a bit too hard. It was not enough to break the skin, but it was enough for Hobyrim to tell that Ozma did not know her own strength; this was an adventure for her just as much as it was for him. Ozma was close, her breath on his face mixed with the harsh flowery smell of the soapy water that covered him. He could tell she concentrated deeply because she did not react when he ran a hand through her bed-mussed hair. In some ways, despite her lack of experience, she was more efficient than Hobyrim. After he first lost his sight, Hobyrim had trouble with the shaving blade when it came to the smaller crevices near his mouth and nose and often ended up with small cuts. As he re-familiarized with himself and the world around him, it had simply become habit to not shave the areas. Hobyrim kept himself well trimmed and professional, but as he lived so often in the wilderness and traveled frequently as a mercenary, it only proved inefficient to worry about the upkeep of his facial hair.

Ozma had no such qualms and drew the small blade across his chin, around his mouth, and under his nose. She was very thorough, if slow. She particularly spent her time around his cheeks, where she had earlier nuzzled against him. The small area around his nose caused some problems and she seemed unable to find a way to use the blade effectively. Hobyrim barely prevented a quiet grunt as she cut too deeply around the edge and drew blood. Ozma immediately put the blade to the side and he could feel her look for the small wet rag. Hobyrim grasped for her hand, he missed at first and clenched her arm instead, but it got her attention.

"It's not painful. Continue." Ozma hesitated for a moment and, though he could not see her features, he could feel her internal debate. She was obviously quite upset that she had harmed him, but to him it was no issue and she worried about nothing. He did his best to smile reassuringly under the soap, but it likely looked ridiculous. Ozma finally relented and he soon felt the small blade on his skin again. The soap in his small cut stung, but Hobyrim distracted himself by the feel of Ozma's fingers and the sharp sound of the small knife as his companion drew it across his skin. After a time, Ozma withdrew the blade and he felt her move away slightly. He could tell she looked him up and down in appraisal of her work. Hobyrim felt Ozma move to the side and pick up the still-soapy towel. She dipped it into the small pitcher of water and again squeezed it out. She repeated the process three times until she deemed it acceptable and then turned back to Hobyrim's face, where she wiped it down with the room-temperature water.

With much of the soap gone, Hobyrim allowed Ozma to run her fingers across his newly shaved jaw. Her stroke left a warm tingle across his still-wet skin and he grasped at her hand in order to hold it against him once again, not yet willing to let the warm feel pass. Ozma did not resist, instead, she came closer and gently brought her lips onto Hobyrim's for a demure kiss. Hobyrim enjoyed the hesitant touch of Ozma's lips and the feel of her wet skin beneath his fingers; in reaction, Hobyrim encircled her waist with his free arm. They shared their breaths for a time, and Ozma hesitantly removed her hand from his. Hobyrim released her almost painfully, but her hands found their way down his back in a light massage. Hobyrim melted under the pressure and simply enjoyed how she kneaded his skin, even from the odd position they were in against the bathing tub. His shoulders were remarkably stiff and often her massage was painful. He held back his winces, for a small bit of pain was worth Ozma's satisfaction. Ozma worked at the muscles stubbornly until they relented to her touch. As she did so, Hobyrim again slipped his hands around her waist and ran his fingers up her side, the soft silk of her exquisite nightdress cool between his fingers. It clung to her curves and allowed Hobyrim to see with his touch, even if he could not with his eyes. Ozma's hands made their way into his hair until she stopped almost jarringly.

"Ah! How could I forget?" Ozma withdrew and he knew she turned away. As she spoke, her voice held an amused undertone, but it seemed more at her own foolishness. Hobyrim was disappointed at the lack of contact, but apparently Ozma had something else on her mind. "Hobyrim, you shall not distract me until I finish." Hobyrim nodded, not sure what Ozma had planned or what he had done wrong. Ozma dug around beside her until he heard her pick up another object.

"What do you plan?" Hobyrim asked calmly. He received his answer when Ozma turned his face away from hers and ran his comb through his hair. She was a bit rough with the small comb, but given the own length of her hair she was likely far more familiar with the act of brushing than shaving. She began near the bottom of his hair and made her way up and, as she did so, she grasped small portions at a time and tugged at the ends until she could run the comb through with few issues. Ozma's own larger brush would have been more effective and less-time consuming on his longer hair, but Hobyrim neglected to say so, for if he did, it might give Ozma the idea that she would need to brush his hair every morning. Hobyrim had lived on his own for long enough that he was independent; there was certainly no need for Ozma to treat him as a child - even if he admitted he enjoyed the attention.

When Ozma was finally able to draw the comb through his hair without a stop at a snarl, Hobyrim released a small sigh of relief. His break was short lived as Ozma turned back to him again immediately after. "Do not move." She commanded and she took his head in her hands. She positioned him so that he looked straight forward, chin held somewhat high. Ozma again ran the small comb through his hair and held near the bottom. She seemed to examine the ends of his hair as he realized her intention: a trim. While Hobyrim had been somewhat hesitant about the shave, a haircut he could appreciate outright. His own trims usually consisted of a lazy slice with a dagger, which often caused the ends of his hair to be cut unevenly. He was not one for fashion, as his day-to-day clothes were old and meant for comfort and ease of use, but even he could admit that badly trimmed hair was less than impressive.

From behind, Hobyrim instinctively tensed as he felt Ozma drag her small dagger across the ends his hair. He could not feel it, but he imagined the small uneven ends of his hair fell onto the ground between them. Ozma continued to brush the comb through his hair and cut for almost a half an hour until she was satisfied. He knew she finished when he heard her pat down her legs and then she roughly brushed off the back of his nightclothes to get the stray hairs to fall away. Ozma stood; she radiated satisfaction with her work. Hobyrim, too, pushed himself off the ground, the floor slick between his fingers from the drips of soapy water from both the towel and his face. As he turned around, Ozma once again put her hand on his arm and brushed a comb through his hair. She had already finished the trim, now she simply styled it how she chose. He did not care about the style so long as it did not get in his way, so he allowed her to do as she pleased with the small comb.

As they finished in the small bathing room, he heard his companion pick up the objects from the floor beside them He assumed she carried them as they both left the damp chamber; unlike before, Ozma chose not to guide him. Hobyrim simply stood in the middle of the room as Ozma rushed into their bed chamber. After a moment, he heard her place some of the items she had used, likely the dagger, shaving blade, and pitcher, onto one of their bedside tables. She came back almost immediately and as she did such, she spoke flirtatious words with a seductive intonation.

"My, Hobyrim, you look quite handsome this morning." Ozma brought herself close again and Hobyrim couldn't resist a soft chuckle at the strange mix of playful and debonair words. As she had earlier, she rubbed the side of her cheek against his, but did not remove it, satisfied with her work. She touched the side of his face with her hand and let a bit of Light magic flow into the small cut she had created with the blade. The warm tingle, paired with the passive feathery touches of her soft skin took his breath away. Hobyrim had forgotten all about the small cut with his distraction and his haircut. Ozma's tone, touch, and demeanor showed that she obviously wanted to take him back to their bed, but Hobyrim had other ideas. He hated to disappoint the woman, but he found the small room suffocating.

"Let's go out." Ozma released a small huff of distaste and she turned away in annoyance at Hobyrim's blatant refusal. "I wish to see the sea." Ozma was his eyes, as she always would be. "I would hear the waves, feel the sand under my toes, taste the wind - and perhaps you along with it." He had piqued her curiosity and he could almost see her smile in his mind. He did not know how much his image of her was true, how much of it was memory, and how much of it was fantasy, but it did not matter. Ozma was Ozma, even if he still found himself unused to the quieter, if still just as demanding and confident, elder version of his fiancée. In some ways, he counted his loss of sight as a blessing, for it allowed him to judge others by their actions and not be swayed by petty words or appearances.

"Very well." Ozma took his hand and led him over to the window he stood at earlier. He put his arm around her waist as she lightly explained the sights she saw. He drank in her descriptions of the blue and grey sky - the sun had only just risen over the ocean, the light mist, and the way the waves looked as they crashed upon the cliff below them, white sea-foam scattered about the rocks. She spoke to him of a small boat out in the distance in the city's dock that he had not known was there and of how sea birds picked through the sand as they hoped to find a meal. It was too early for them to go out and explore the sands yet, but with Ozma's quiet, elaborate descriptions, he could almost imagine they did so already.


	16. World: CatiuaDenam

I do intend to write a "true" story of this pairing at a later time, but this short piece simply would not leave my mind. _**  
><strong>_

_**World**_

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><p><em>I've often heard said that below the most peaceful surface lies the greatest tension. Or, if one is a romantic, they prefer: "the most peaceful facade holds the darkest secrets." Both are true of the situation in Heim.<em>

_It's the unspoken secret of all former-Resistance members._

_Every evening when I pass by his room, Denam is speaking. He's a busy man, or so the rumors say, and none are to disturb him._

"Of course, they must have found a way. What do you think, sister?"

". . .But they must have some reason for their actions. I intend to find it."

_No voice ever replies._

"One step forward, two back. What I wouldn't give for this war to be over."

_It is over, Denam. What is it you see? What is it you hear? Why won't you share it with us?_

_The next day, all is normal._

"Congratulations, Denam."

"There's no one we'd rather have but you!"

"Thank you, all of you, for your continued support. We will build a brighter future: together."

_Cheers erupt and the party begins. All of Heim celebrates and even Denam __cracks one of his rare smiles. He, above all others, deserves happiness. But, as consistently as the sun rises, Denam retires early._

_I follow, as I alw__ays do. For both of us, it is perpetual repetition._

_I will stay by his side until my last breath if I must, but. . .What can I say? What can I do?_

"Denam! It's so wonderful to see you."

_Denam invites me in. He has a smile on his face, his actions no different from times previous.  
><em>

"Olivya. It's been far too long, for both of us." _We spoke little more than an hour ago. _" Please, come in, we've just been musing on how to best deal with the Loslorien remnants."

_I cannot meet his eyes. Denam and I remain alone and he discusses plans with none but himself. I nod cautious__ly from time to time as he speaks._

_"_Are you sure that's a wise move, sister?" _Denam turns to the empty couch and stares at it with a frown, as if intently listening and thinking on words only he can hear._

"So you say, but I can't shake the feeling that they seek something else."

_I look into the large mirror on Denam's dresser. Perhaps it is simply my imagination or perhaps it is whatever madness resides in Denam's chambers, but I see myself in my robe that once signified my former position in the Order of Philaha. I've not worn the robe for Scales; when I blink, it is gone, replaced by my pale dress._

"Denam" _I try again. _"Catiua is. . ." _It's impossible to continue; the words never leave my mouth. He lives a fantasy and I can't bring myself to shatter it._

"Yes, I know. She's right." _Denam gives a weary sigh. _"Olivya, if you would, send Cerya my way when you return. I am in need of her assistance."

_I give a half-smile and nod, for it is as much as I can muster. I've not seen Cerya i__n years, nor do I know if she yet lives. I excuse myself quietly after._

"His condition remains unchanged?" _Catiua's voice is tinged with worry as she stops me on my way back to my chambers. She no longer wears her wedding gown, but instead one of her more comfortable nightdresses._

"Need I answer, your Majesty?"


	17. Sight: CatiuaDenam

Due to many requests at various locations, I finally broke down and wrote a CatiuaDenam, a pairing I'm not particularly fond of. Expect OlivyaDenam as well as some sprinkles of OzmaHobyrim. This story starts in 3N, but continues all the way beyond Denam's return to Valeria from Xenobia. There are a few rather dramatic changes to the events that occur in Phidoch that you'll see almost immediately, as well as a slightly_ different _Catiua, who is a bit darker than in canon.

Time skips are represented with a full line break.  
>Shorter time skips, or scene shifts, are represented with:<br>*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_**Sight**_

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><p>The scene that met Denam as he walked cautiously, exhausted from his battle to break the Bakram lines, into the Great Hall of Phidoch behind Leonar astonished him: Catiua, who had gone missing, a sword in hand, and Leonar, who stood before her. Catiua looked differently from any other time Denam had seen her and it was more than the change of clothes into a formal black dress. She had a smile on her features, but it was not warm, nor did it welcome him; the young Walister was reminded more of the times when he had come into his sister's room after an argument to apologize, with her head upturned and every glance in his direction a look of disgust and annoyance. Before Denam could move more than a step into the room to stop Leonar's or his sister's assault, Catiua took the initiative in her attack. Her familiar sword tore through Leonar's more lightly armored stomach. With almost inhuman strength for a woman of her size and skill, Catiua pulled her blade horizontally outwards in a move that partially cut the Commander in two. The sword's muted slice, paired with the sound of the clash of metal and the tear of cloth, made Denam's stomach churn in disgust and horror. Leonar was strong enough that he did not scream, but his body had tensed completely as he fell down onto the floor before Catiua. He gasped and his entire body wrenched in its silent gag when Catiua stabbed him again, in his sword arm to prevent any further attack, and twisted her blade within him in order to further incapacitate him and tear apart both his muscles and blood vessels. Leonar finally released a moan from his potion on the ground; the arm that still worked desperately grasped at the gash through his body, but Catiua's sword had been too deep and had not only impaled him, but cut through both his stomach and intestines. It was not the loss of blood that would kill him, for that could be prevented if Denam called Oelias and Donnalto immediately, but the damage to his internal organs.<p>

Denam ran up to Leonar, his breath ragged from shock and weariness, but his mind was elsewhere. It was horrible of him to do so, but his thoughts focused on his sister rather than the man who slowly died below him. Denam distractedly grasped at Leonar's wound, hands immediately soaked in his sticky, wet blood, the flesh was slick under his fingers, and he could feel the torn skin and muscle under his hands. He channeled Light magic in attempt to heal the older man, but both Leonar and Denam knew it was a lost cause. Leonar silently shook his head at Denam from his position on the ground; the trivial motion caused a loud, wretched gasp. His entire being cried for him to do otherwise, but Denam removed his hands and released his magic. Denam was skilled, but nowhere near powerful enough to heal the wounds on his Commander. In anger and sadness, Denam turned to his sister, who stood above them both, as she spoke mockingly.

"Come to my rescue? What a good brother you are." If words could be poison, he knew hers to be tinged with the deadliest of venom.

Rather than flee from her younger, more skilled, brother, Catiua took a step forward. She pointed her sword down towards Denam, who continued to kneel beside the broken Leonar. Denam examined his sister's face and searched for answers in her eyes, unable to understand or comprehend the situation between them. Catiua's gaze no longer held the soft, if subtly annoyed, expression it once did, instead replaced only by a troubled darkness. On her features was no calm smile, but a twisted and even sadistic one. Her skin was pale and her eyes had dark rings around them, as if she had not slept or left her room in weeks. Her hair fell out of its place under the dark hat as she laughed, a twisted sound Denam could hardly believe came from her.

Denam tried to speak, but his mind and body could not form the words he desperately sought to make. His mouth was dry and his tongue didn't respond. His eyes met Catiua's as she prepared herself for her next attack. She moved swiftly and rushed forward towards Denam, who found himself paralyzed. Time seemed to move almost in slow motion and Denam saw every move his sister made in great detail as she slashed downwards, hand too strongly over the hilt, mouth slightly opened at her heavy breaths, eyebrows creased together, it all came together in an instant as the blade cut into the left side of Denam's face; the weapon connected with the soft flesh of his face for an instant, the tip dragged deeply down from his forehead to his cheekbone, before the pain was interrupted. In one last show of strength and determination, Leonar pushed Denam out of the way with only the weight of his body. Catiua had only damaged his arm, not his legs, so Leonar had been able to stand and force himself, likely with excruciating agony, to save Denam from Catiua's attack. Denam stumbled aside at the force and rolled onto the ground and back onto his feet with practiced ease, if a bit of a sore shoulder. Paralysis lifted, Denam drew his blade.

"Leonar. . ." Denam looked down at the broken man on the floor before him. His breaths were quick and ragged from his final exertion and he coughed; blood was in his lungs from both the previous wound and not his new one, which only seemed to have impacted against the armor of his chest. It was not until a moment later that the younger Walister realized, somewhat delayed, that not all was as it seemed. Denam clenched his eyes closed and felt blood drip down his forehead and over his lips. He instinctively licked the distraction off his face, but it continued to drop with increased frequency from the gash down the left side of his face. As if he forgot Leonar and Catiua were there completely, with his free hand, he pressed a hand to his wound where the blood seeped from. Catiua's sword had made its way down the left side of his forehead, and to Denam's horror, through his left eye. Denam opened his eyes; Catiua remained over Leonar's fallen body as she examined her work with a sadistic curiosity. Denam glanced over and noticed his assumption had been incorrect, from the new cut, Leonar's right shoulder had been cut deeply, but his collarbone prevented its removal entirely. While there had been little hope before there was none after the second wound and the worsened first wound, from which Denam could swear he saw intestines spill out. Denam's sight was blurred uncomfortably; his right eye worked perfectly, but through his left he only saw darkness. Denam kept his hand pressed to his face and released a minimal amount of Light magic into it in attempt to regain his sight but to no avail, his eye had been pierced deeply enough that it, too, seeped fluid. The Light magic stopped the blood that poured from the external wounds on through forehead and cheek, but he was not skilled enough to return his sight, for it would require extensive anatomical knowledge that he did not have.

Denam stumbled back as Catiua's attention returned to him. He pushed his eye closed, but the pain only intensified at the pressure and it mad sight from his right eye even more difficult. He released a harsh breath as he removed his hand and rubbed the sticky fluid onto his shirt before he grasped his blade with both hands again in preparation for Catiua's next assault. Unexpectedly, Catiua lowered and sheathed her blade. She kicked Leonar aside out of her way as she walked towards Denam, her boots left a light trail of blood as they passed over the hall's stone floor. Denam remained alert, but he knew his defensive posture was a facade; he did not wish to raise a blade against his sister. His sister's lack of weapon as she approached and her warm expression calmed Denam a bit, but his face pounded agonizingly and distracted him; it was all he could do to remain impassive and feign strength, for he needed a healer. The pain caused him to sweat, the wetness dripped down his face in large droplets stung his wounds and dropped blood in long trails down his face where it continued to fall onto his armor and seeped from his underarms. His breaths were loud and Denam did his best to control them and the shakes that followed. The young Walister's nerves were frayed from the shock of Leonar's death at the hands of Catiua, who seemed almost a different person, as well as his sister's presence in Phidoch entirely.

Catiua stopped before Denam, the cruel look gone from her face, replaced with one of worry and something else he could not place with his sight blurred from pain. She looked him up and down; Denam's sword arm quivered and lowered as Catiua showed she was no threat to him. Catiua gave him a warm smile.

"Oh, Denam. I'm so sorry. . .this wasn't supposed to happen." As if she had never left, Catiua put her hand onto Denam's face; her magic flowed into the wound, the feel warm and familiar, as she had done the same with many of Denam's scrapes and cuts when he had been younger. The spell did not stop the pain, but it lightly dissipated it. No longer did the deep cut send sharp spikes that incapacitated him through his head, but, if anything, instead produced a more powerful throb that overwhelmed him, each pulse sent him into a spiral of dizziness. He gritted his teeth at the sensation and clenched both of his eyes closed, much to the consternation of his sister. "You'll have to open your eyes if I am to heal you, Brother."

Denam made a sound of agreement, unsure of what to say and not sure that, even if he said anything, the words would come out coherently. He cautiously did as his sister asked and wrenched his eyes open, the sting of blood of sweat burned at his left and the bright light into his right. The blood from his eye dripped through Catiua's fingers as she kept her hand on his face, her light ministrations pressed the flesh closed with her Light magic. Catiua lightly put her hand to Denam's right cheek, near his good eye, and stroked the side of his face lovingly. Denam felt his guard lower again and he melted into his sister's warm, familiar, touch. He was still wary of the sounds around him, but Catiua would never hurt him. She had attacked Leonar in self-defense, he convinced himself.

It happened in an instant, so quickly that Denam did not comprehend what occurred until the moment had passed. As her warm magic stopped and she released her hand from Denam's eye, the fingers on her other hand, the one that stroked his face, pierced into Denam's right eye. Denam screamed loudly as she twisted her fingers around the small organ. It was a short struggle, but with enough force added, she pulled the eyeball from its socket with her sheer strength. Denam instinctively pushed away from Catiua, who laughed lightly with glee and fled away in a direction Denam couldn't see. No longer did his left eye bleed, but his right eye's blood dripped almost entirely down his face. The eyeball itself was entirely gone, Catiua fled with it, and Denam's left eye, even though not painful, was completely incapable of sight. The world was entirely dark. He heard footsteps around him, but paid them little attention, his body too engrossed with pain and shock to listen or care, his body shook and he knew his mouth was opened, like one of dim-wit, but his body did not respond. He was even overwhelmed with emotion than he was with pain: sadness for Leonar, shock at his sister's brutal actions, worry at how the Resistance would end up - for the leadership had changed hands so many times in a rapid period of time, and pain that incapacitated him from his right eye and the memory of pain in his left. A primal horror filled him at the utter darkness that overwhelmed his sight and he sagged to his knees.

All around him he felt people - it was not even their presence, he was only aware because they surrounded him and bustled about. He could not tell who they were or even how close and it instilled more dread into him than he would have felt had he known he was surrounded by hundreds of foes. Among the chaos he heard two pairs of footsteps rush over to him, closer than the others and stiffened; his entire body was on edge from the prolonged influence of adrenaline. "Brother, move him out of the way." Denam focused on the words and the voice and forced himself into calmness when he recognized them as from Oelias. That meant his reinforcements had arrived and the castle had been truly taken; Denam found h could muster no enthusiasm for the feat, even if it was a decisive victory for the Resistance. A moment later, he felt large hands covered in armor grip around his arm painfully; the hand tugged him up from his shocked position on the floor without a word. Denam relented and pushed himself off the ground; he walked, or stumbled, after the odd man - Dievold, and Oelias. As he slowly did such, he jumped forcefully into full standing position at a soft touch on his shoulder. It was smaller and unarmored, and he assumed it was Oelias, and was shown to be correct as she whispered to him. "Don't worry, Denam, we're capable of routing them." Dievold led, or more accurately, dragged, Denam to what seemed to be a wall. Denam pressed his hand against it before he turned around and allowed his back to slide down until he fell to the floor. His breaths slowly controlled themselves as the initial shock had worn off, but now his pain became more apparent. Dievold released Denam and seemed to move away, but from Denam's experience with the siblings, he would not have moved far from Oelias, who kneeled next to Denam. She pressed her hands and magic against his face, his left eye first, as she did what Denam guessed to be an examination. It was obvious what happened to Denam's right eye, so she did not need to determine how bad the wound was.

"Denam, I'm going to heal your eyes as best I can. It seems that girl used an odd magic in your left eye; I am unsure if I will be able to remove it." Oelias's voice rose as the sound of battle began around them. Denam flinched away at Oelias's touch at the memory of Catiua's warm magic and cold betrayal, but forcefully calmed himself. Oelias could do no more damage than what already happened; his sight was gone and no matter the skill of the healer, it could only be partially repaired. Clerics were skilled, but they could not work the miracles of the Great Father and replace lost limbs or organs. Furthermore, to distrust his allies would only cause dissent in the already frail, now-leaderless Resistance. Denam needed to lead in Leonar's place, to support his comrades and fight for his people, but was frustrated that all he could do was sit against the wall in the arms of a healer. He was no better than a child. Oelias's power felt different in his eyes than Catiua's as she explored and Denam wondered why he hadn't noticed the odd side-effect, whatever it was, of Catiua's spell that Oelias had mentioned. He had been so distracted by his thoughts that he had not noticed to off way Catiua had used her magic; even after the event, he was bewildered that Catiua would even attempt such harm to him. Time passed as a blur for Denam; his mind and body were only occupied by pain, the warmth of Oelias's spells, and the clash of battle all around him – the loud sounds of the latter were impossible to ignore. After an unknowable period of time, Oelias finally spoke, regret in her voice, her hand had moved from the left side of his face to the right, where she attempted to stop the blood in the hole that had once held his eye. "There's nothing I can do Denam, I'm sorry. The spell has prevented any permanent recovery. I've stopped the blood flow, for now, but you'll need to stay here."

Denam cursed under his breath. He felt so helpless. Angry at himself more than anyone else, Denam nodded his head in acceptance of Oelias's words, but realize the foolishness of his motion when Oelias had to remove her hands and stop her precise spell. _How could events have spiraled out of control so rapidly?_ He tried to find something to focus on that was not his pain or his regret, but it was all that filled. As he focused on the world around him, it became even more difficult to avoid the constant, overbearing presence of reality. Screams echoed from around the room, some high pitched, others were lower grunts, some were even in anger and frustration; the hall was humid from the heat and heavy breath of all the soldiers who fought, only amplified by the warmth of the season.

Even with their leaders fallen, multiple times over, the Resistance persisted relentlessly; in their determination, Denam felt a sense of pride for his people and his comrades who had fought so passionately despite all the hatred they had endured after Balmamusa and all the odds. Denam reminded himself to thank his new friends and allies, too, for without them, there would have been none to lead the assault in his place. He hated his helplessness; it brought only memories of Golyat and the massacre he had been unable to prevent. He had sworn to never be so powerless again and yet, there he remained on the floor, pathetic and helpless as a newborn babe, as two of his companions protected him. Oelias's spells temporarily reduced the pain he felt, but he knew it would return in time. Then what would he do? How could he lead, not only blinded, but bed-ridden in agony until whatever remained of his eyes healed? The Resistance did not have time to wait around, they needed to move quickly but cautiously and Denam was not capable enough to lead them. Denam stopped the line of thought before it progressed further; there was no point in self-pity. He would find a way, he _must _find a way. It was hard for Denam to put any emphasis on the though, as his morale was drained, but the revelation of his new goal filled him with purpose.

Quiet footsteps sounded from in front of him, they were armored, but lighter than many of the Resistance's Knights. Dievold had not moved, so it must be someone else. The armored form seemed to stop some distance in front of Denam and, because Oelias and Dievold had not greeted them, he knew that the presence was not a welcome one.

"So it was you." The voice was soft, feminine, and Denam might even call it sad. He knew immediately from the light accent that the speaker was foreign. "What a pathetic sight you are."

Denam unintentionally turned his head around to find the source of the voice, but blushed at his foolishness a moment later when he realized he would not be able to find the woman who spoke with his eyes. "Who . . .?" He questioned in attempt to pinpoint her direction. The voice was unfamiliar and he was on guard, wary of a potential attack. He grasped at his sword hilt, which he still held in his hand from his earlier encounter with Catiua, though he knew it would not do him much good in his current condition. With the current distraction, he was able to focus less on his pain and worries.

". . .Two parts of one soul, and now half of that soul is gone, thanks to you!" The voice had lost all trace of calmness and instead took on a vile, predatory tone. Denam had said nothing was unsure of what provoked the unfamiliar female, who continued to stand somewhere in front of him, into anger. Confusion gripped his features as the woman continued. "Catiua will never mourn you as I mourned Oz. Think on that as your blood wets these stones!" Before Oelias and Dievold could move in defense, the woman's weapon snapped over Denam. He felt the painful burn of what he now knew to be her whip as it pierced into the newly-healed skin of his face. He gasped and coughed in shock, only his trained self-control kept his head held high. Even if he did not feel it, he needed to show a face of confidence, as his father had taught him. The woman's weapon snapped again in what Denam knew to be a second attack, but he was surprised when the blow never came. From the sounds that surrounded him, Denam assumed that Dievold had intercepted the weapon with his heavy armor and large weapon in order to prevent damage onto the young Walister. Denam could feel his new wounds drip blood; the skin wounds were not as deep as Catiua's, but they were more painful; it felt as it the flesh had been ripped from his face and that large spikes had been forced into his skin and then removed. It was not a normal whip, he could immediately tell, for none had caused him the combined pierced and burnt feel.

So that woman was related to the Dark Knight he had killed at Boed? Denam's day continued to get worse. A vengeful sister, a vengeful Lodissian, and a fallen Resistance leader - _again_. He thanked Philaha he had loyal friends and companions who would fight for him, for they were all that kept Denam grounded with a tenuous hold on sanity. Dievold, Denam assumed, stood in front of he and Oelias. The broken man and the distraught woman spoke, but Denam found himself hard-pressed to heed the words. He was tired of his facade of strength; it not only physically exhausted him, but mentally. He did not know how much longer he could endure before he cracked. Denam felt Oelias rise to her feet from her former position kneeled at his side, likely to support her brother. Denam didn't know what to do; he was helpless, overpowered, and easy prey to any of the Bakram or Lodissian soldiers in the crowded hall. Denam leaned his head against the wall in a remarkable bout of self-pity and breathed heavily. For the first time in years, he wanted to cry. The last words he heard before he collapsed from pain and exhaustion were:

"Enough, Ozma."

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><p>Denam woke slowly, the world dark around him. He blinked rapidly in order to clear his vision, but nothing appeared before him. Perhaps it was the middle of the night? <em>No<em>. The world crashed down around him as images and memories filled his mind, pain, sadness, desperation, Catiua, Lodis, Phidoch, Leonar. . .Violent emotions greeted Denam as he awakened for the first time without his sight. He did not know how long he had been unconscious, realistically, he was only exhausted enough to sleep for a few hours unless the healers had cast a spell to keep him asleep for longer. Denam didn't move, not quite sure what to do with himself. He instinctively tried to look about and determine his situation, but only found darkness. He put his hands to his face as the memory of the battle filled his mind and found his eyes were covered by large bandages that encircled his head. No longer did he have the harsh cuts from Catiua's sword on his forehead or cheek or the welts from the woman's whip that tore across his face. The healers had tended to him, so he concluded that from his location and the way he was bandaged and healed, it was likely that he had been asleep for a prolonged period, definitely more than a few hours. In annoyance and desperation, Denam clutched at the bandages over his eyes; it was foolish, he knew, but Denam tore at the wrap around his face and brought it down around his neck in a small, last moment hope. The hope deflated when Denam opened his eyes, or – he corrected himself – eye, and found there to be no difference when he opened or closed his eyelids, it was a constant, complete darkness. He gasped unintentionally; it was as if Fate belatedly hit him over the head. In the battle, Denam focused mostly on the pain and his own helplessness as his thoughts had been able to do little more than comprehend the situation, but now that the pain subsided, the reality that he could not see, and would be unable to ever again, overwhelmed him. Denam let his hands drop from his face and to his sides. Though he had, somehow, survived to live and fight another day, he felt more filled with despair than he ever had been before. How could he be a good military leader if he could not even see the positions of troops on the battlefield? He would need someone who acted with him constantly, to tell him of events and to effectively relay orders. Even if Denam was, by default after both Ronwey and Leonar's deaths, the leader of the Resistance, he did not know if he could adequately lead any longer. The very idea tore him apart, as the Resistance would fall apart.

In attempt to distract himself from such negativity, Denam patted himself down to further his knowledge of the situation; his armor had been removed and his clothing was changed. The outfit seemed to be rather thin and low quality, likely one given to the ill in an infirmary or even prisoners. Denam brought his hands down against the uncomfortable bed and moved slowly around in attempt to explore with feel alone. He found a small bedtable to his right and touched the items on top of it. His fingers ran cautiously and very slowly; he didn't realize they shook from anticipation until he found something and accidentally almost hit it over as his fingers touched the side. It was cool and, from its shape, Denam assumed it was a glass. Denam put his fingers into the top and found it unfilled. How odd it was; what were once easy, familiar actions had become completely alien, incredibly difficult, and consumed large amounts of time. He could no longer just lift the glass from the bedstand, he needed to feel in attempt to locate it, find where to properly grasp it, not to mention he would not know if it was filled until his touch or the weight of the glass told him so. Denam removed his hands from the cup and continued his exploration. There was nothing else on the small bedtable, not even a pitcher of water, not that Denam was confident enough in his blindness to even pour water for himself. On the left side of Denam's bed was a wall. Denam ran his hand up and down it to see if it gave him any clue to his whereabouts, but could find none other than that it was a cool stone win surprisingly large slabs. In a frustrated annoyance, Denam went back to his neck and completely removed the bandages from his head. In a childish motion, the young Walister man tossed them to the side, in a fit of annoyance, sadness, and anger. He regretted it a moment later as he realized how immature the action was, but the feel that he was helpless was ingrained into him; he no longer felt like a self-sufficient adult.

Denam slid his legs out from under the blanket and over the side of the bed. Denam easily determined the ground under his feet was a cool stone similar to the walls and gave him the only hint to his location, which was likely either in the lower level of a manor or a castle of some sort. Denam thinned his options, either the Resistance had taken Phidoch, or they had fled to Rhime, or even Almorica. Almorica was days away from Phidoch, more than a week with a large force, so he doubted that option. Denam slowly rose from the bed to stand on his own; his muscles were a bit stiff, but from what he could tell, they were not damaged. He stretched, arms over his head, for a moment before he walked slowly about the chamber. He heard voices in the distance, but they were quiet enough that he couldn't tell which direction they came from. His hands were in front of him, slightly lowered, to prevent accidental impact into any object. The room seemed to be relatively empty and simple. Denam accidentally found what seemed to be a dresser of sorts on the wall, or perhaps it held medical supplies, he couldn't be sure, but otherwise there was little of interest. Denam stayed pressed against the wall until he found what felt like a door. The wood was distinct from the cool stone and Denam ran his hands firmly over the assumed-door and pushed it away from him slowly. It made a loud creak and Denam winced at the sound; the voices he had heard only moments before apparently came from this side room, for they stopped when Denam pushed his way in.

In hindsight, Denam felt remarkably foolish. He did not know where he was, nor did he know if it was even safe, yet he had decided to explore this relatively unknown area. He had not been harmed, but for how long would that last if he was a prisoner? His fears were alleviated almost immediately as the voices, both feminine, rose and one of the women stood and approached him.

"Sir! You shouldn't be up. Where is your bandage? Please, let's go back to your bed."

Denam flinched at the woman's touch and unintentionally withdrew. He did not mean to offend her, but he had simply not expected it. Without his sight, even small touches shocked him. The woman tried again, more slowly, and the second time Denam accepted her hand on his arm as she led him back into the room he just left. Denam held back his annoyance, which grew by the second; he had so many questions and so few answers. As they reached "his" bed, Denam used his hands to help himself sit down; even a simple motion that was familiar to any toddler took time and caution. The woman, Denam assumed by her lighter clothing and the way she "tutted" that she was a Cleric, ran her fingers over Denam's face in what he assumed to be an examination. When she was finished shortly after, she removed her hands and walked about the room possibly to the dresser he encountered earlier. Denam finally spoke when he hear her murmur to herself as she rustled through what seemed to be a drawer of supplies.

"Where am I?" Before the unknown woman could answer, Denam continued. He missed the second set of footsteps that walked into the room as he focused on his questions. "What happened in the battle? Where is Catiua? Is the Resistance. . .?" Denam could not bring himself to finish.

The voice that responded was not the woman's, but instead he recognized it as Oelias, who had quietly entered while Denam made his demand for answers. "Please, allow me. He is my responsibility."

"But-" The unknown woman tried to interrupt but did not get a chance as Oelias approached. Denam could hear her footsteps, but she seemed didn't walk over to him; he could hear the two women whisper and suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Women could be decidedly frightful when they chose to be, and a woman who plots even more so. After a moment of what seemed to be debate, the unknown woman finally relented. ". . .Very well. Sir," the woman's words were directed at Denam, more loudly than they had been previously "if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask."

Denam heard the woman seem to stop her search and, after a few seconds of silence, he heard her footsteps turn away. Denam found it was both difficult and natural to try and determine locations and action by sound, as he had unknowingly done it much of his entire life. What was more difficult was the attempt to glean an elaborate picture of all of smaller events that surrounded him, especially if he were to enter a large room filled with people where the sounds overwhelmed him. The door's loud creak sounded throughout the room and it squealed as it shut quietly behind the woman. In his attempt to experiment and learn to more accurately use his senses, Denam tried to find the source of Oelias's voice; she rustled through whatever it was, dresser or supplies, the other Cleric had. As Denam was more awake than he had been when he had first explored the room, he quickly fell into boredom as he waited for his answers. The atmosphere of the room weighed down on him; it was warm, uncomfortably so, and with the large door closed the air was stuffy and thick, the room smelled of alcohol to wash wounds and sweat, likely from himself. Denam wondered if there was a window for him to open to get from cool, fresh air in. The bed was still warm from his presence, but the thin blanket had been strewn about from Denam's exploration and blasé removal when he had first stood.

"Denam, I'm going to replace your bandage." Denam did not believe it needed to be replaced, since he no longer bled and many of the wounds were gone, but chose not to argue with Oelias, who had moved towards him again. She stood in front of him and put her hands on his face to examine him in a similar manner to the other woman. "We are currently in Phidoch; the castle fell to our forces relative ease, for the Lodissians had mostly fled. The Knight Commander who attacked you. . .well, you'll have to speak with Hobyrim about her."

Oelias paused and began to wrap the fresh cloth around his head. She was very gentle, but had a firmness that many of the other healers Denam had worked with lacked. Oelias was a strange woman in many ways, but Denam knew she took her job very seriously. She finally continued. "Speaking of Hobyrim, he did request a meeting with you. As for your other questions, Catiua seems to have fled with Lanselot Tartaros - he has proclaimed her 'Princess' now, and the rightful heir to the throne." Denam gasped and unintentionally withdrew from Oelias slightly. Her firm grip kept him mostly in place, but more questions flew through Denam's head. _How? Why? When? Princess? _Even more powerful and demanded his attention was the lonely sadness that almost overwhelmed him. Leonar was dead, Vyce was dead, Catiua was gone. Denam was all the Resistance had left and was the last hope Golyat had for its vengeance. He would need to send out shadows later, if they were still loyal, to see if he could find any advantage to their situation. "The Resistance is fine, Denam, you needn't worry. We've suffered many who defected to follow the Princess, but even more are pleased to follow you. You're quite inspirational to young Walister men, or so I'm told, as we had a wave of new recruits once word spread that you were Commander. We've all done our best to lead in your absence. Arycelle's influence and leadership skills have been a blessing."

"Thank you. . ." Denam did not know how to put into words his thankfulness for his friends and companions who shared in his battle. He hoped to make it up to them someday. They had kept the battle strong when Denam had been unable to. Oelias continued as if Denam hadn't spoken.

"I couldn't diagnose what happened to your left eye when on the field, but after extensive study I concluded that your sister ruined it by casting an offensive spell along with the healing spell. The warmth of the healing must have made it difficult to detect that her goal was to cause more damage. She used an advanced tactic; cruel, but effective." Was that approval in the woman's voice? Denam hoped he head incorrectly. "Your right eye, as I'm sure you're aware, is gone entirely. I'm sorry Denam, there's no way for me, or anyone else, to restore your sight."

Denam had assumed as much, but it still hurt to hear the words spoken aloud. He did not reply to the woman as she finished the wrap around his head, unsure of what to say. He finally decided on business. "What is the situation?" Denam was proud that he had kept his tone formal; it hid how much he suffered.

"I wouldn't be the one to ask about that. Arycelle, Cistina, Canopus, they all know more about it than I. I've been holed up in the infirmary as we tended to the wounded and, when I did not do that, I was with you." Oelias had warmth, even familiarity, in her voice that Denam didn't understand. He smiled a bit uncomfortably, but it was the only way he knew to show her that he appreciated her help. With the wrap finally done, Oelias gathered her materials and lightly grasped at Denam's hand. Denam did not flinch at the touch, as it had been expected, but internally he seethed that he had to bed led everywhere. It was not Oelias's fault, of course, and he felt no anger at her, but more at his own incompetence. He hoped someday that he would be able to move on his own, but understood that for now he needed to rely on others for even the simplest of tasks. They did not move far from the bed before Oelias stopped him. "Stay still, Denam. I must dress you."

Oelias's tone was firm, like an elder sister or even a mother. Denam knew the tone she employed; Catiua had used it often on him when he was young. He did not bother to resist as Oelias tugged his trousers down his legs, one at a time, but fortunately not his undergarments. He was dreadfully embarrassed that a woman such as Oelias saw his body, even if she _was_ a Cleric and his friend. Denam stepped out of the pants with a light blush; Oelias laughed as she saw it and helped him pull off the temporary, badly-made, top he had been given as well. The temperature was warm enough that Denam did not shiver, but he felt exposed and waited impatiently until Oelias told him to lift his arms so she could assist him with his new shirt. The shirt was not the one he usually wore and was instead of a finer, softer material. As it set down onto his shoulders and around him, he ran his hands over it, and his fingers played at the end of the sleeves curiously.

"You're the leader of the Resistance now. You must dress as one of your position would. We've ordered new armor from the blacksmith for you as well." He could hear more of that now-familiar warmth in the woman's words, but Denam only felt strange, as if it was a dream. He certainly did not _feel _like a leader; Denam doubted that he could do little more than act as a figurehead. But if a figurehead was necessary, he would do what he must. Oelias tapped Denam's leg to tell him to lift it and he did so, just after she put his leg through the slots at the end of new trousers. The pants, too, were of a fine material; unlike some of his heavier wool ones, they did not itch or scratch. The Cleric continued to kneel by him, Denam could tell because her hands were on his feet, and lifted his foot up carefully. Denam grasped out instinctively around him so that he didn't lose his balance, before his hands finally found the Oelias's shoulders to lightly lean upon. Oelias put both thick socks and heavy, if uncomfortably new and un-broken, boots onto his feet and tied them up with practiced skill. Finally, much to Denam's chagrin, Oelias slid what he knew to be his sword belt around his waist and over his shoulder. He frowned, as they both knew it was for little more than show in his current state. It felt odd to have his sword, but no armor with it. Denam brushed a hand through his tangled hair to give it some semblance of order as Oelias led him by his other hand through the creaky door.

Voices stopped as Denam passed by as Oelias led him through the castle. He heard warm greetings, but more often he heard gasps of shock and even more often the beginnings of rumors spread about him. _Let them talk._ Denam held his head as high as he could in confidence, even if it was only an act. He had to show his troops a strong front; the war had restarted anew and, though much had gone wrong, there was still hope and a chance for the peace they all desired. The greetings, congratulations, and inquiries about his health all eventually sounded the same to Denam and he nodded in a bored manner to each new person who conversed with him. Oelias, too, said little; she simply acted as his guide.

It felt almost like an hour had passed when Oelias finally knocked on a door. Denam had barely paid attention to the direction they had gone, but the atmosphere was distinctly different from where he had first awoken. The air was cleaner, fresher, and not nearly as warm. The sounds were less quiet, feminine voices and more the loud call of soldiers. Ever so often he could hear the clang of armor through the halls, likely a patrol. He might have called the room he had been in before, _the infirmary?,_ something of a small house in the summer, uncomfortable but also safe and brought comfort. The cool halls were more alien, dangerous, open, like a cave in late autumn and Denam worried he would get lost. Even a non-blind man could become lost in the halls of a castle, but Denam's disability proved, once again, how helpless he was without others. A feminine voice from behind the door called for entry immediately and Oelias pushed the door in and held it open for Denam. Denam felt odd with the reversed situation - it was proper for a male to hold the door for a woman - but did not complain. He had other, more dire, worries on his mind. Denam felt remarkably uncomfortable as the door closed behind him, unfamiliar with the new room he stood in, as well as its current occupants. Oelias no longer touched his arm; he lightly felt around for her, Denam most likely he seemed incredibly foolish as he did so, but it seemed his guide had not entered with him.

"Denam, I'm glad you're okay." The strong, feminine voice of Arycelle sounded from somewhere in front of him. It made sense to Denam why Arycelle had chosen to lead in his stead; she had been popular in the Resistance, as well as was well known to once have been Leonar's lover, even if she had tried to hide it. Even Denam knew about their past forays and he tried to avoid rumors entirely. The Thunder Maiden had held the fierce loyalty of many within the Resistance, even after she defected. There may be older and possibly more experienced leaders than she, but Denam could respect that, as the situation was, she had been a good, if not the best, choice. "I've much to tell you. Please, sit down." Denam moved, very slowly, forward, his hands in front of him. He knew Arycelle meant well, but she did not seem to realize how difficult "sit down" was when Denam was entirely unaware of where the chair was located.

It took some time, but as soon as Denam sat, Arycelle immediately began to tell him of the current situation, troop supplies, morale levels, information procured by their shadows, budget issues, and of their control over their territory. In some ways, the Resistance was stronger than ever. They held well onto their lands, and the people accepted and cheered for them, despite the constant change in leadership. Though Denam was hesitant to admit it, even he was admittedly relieved as he did so, Ronwey's death had caused a spike in popularity within the commons and even some of the nobles. Ronwey had pushed too hard, and too soon, with unpopular methods and strategies, even amongst his own people. On the other hand, many had deserted to follow the new Princess; Denam worried that this third faction, split from Brantyn's, would spell disaster. Even with control of some of the larger ports for supplies and trade, the Resistance could not hold back both the Lodissians and the Bakram. Arycelle also spoke of funds, which were secure but with war times prices that constantly fluctuated they could run low. The new commander worried that Brantyn could secure control over the trade of specific, integral products; if he did so, the Resistance would certainly lose.

"There's one last problem I need to discuss with you."

Arycelle's voice turned severe. No longer did it have the bored monotone it had when she spoke of reports and assignments. "I know you've only been asleep for two days, but in that time and the time we spent taking Phidoch, the Order of Philaha took Brigantys Castle."

Denam was shocked. If the Order of Philaha was to become involved, the war could drastically change for the better - or worse. The Order controlled much power and determined who ruled. Even those who ruled by blood must have the committed support of the Order, for they represented not only the power of the Great Father, but the commons as well. If Denam could obtain the support of the Order, he would have extended political backing and, more importantly, further support from the commons and nobles. Denam weighed it against possible negative effects: Full support by the Order could alienate the Bakram further and the Galgastani would have a mixed, mostly negative, reaction to it and could possibly react brashly in a small revolution that Denam could absolutely not afford. Brantyn might see it as an overly hostile action and act out immediately, but Denam doubted the Regent would do that, given that he also had a "Princess" to contend with as well as the Resistance for popularity and support. Denam had no doubt that men, too, deserted Brantyn to aid Catiua.

"Very well." Denam spoke with a confidence he definitely did not feel; the pros outweighed the cons in his gamble, but it was not an opportunity the new Commander could pass up. He had no idea how he would be able to command if he could not even see troop and enemy placement, but he could not simply wait around. Hopefully, the Resistance would not need to battle, as to become the enemy of the Order would doom them. "We parley."

* * *

><p>Denam's week - nay, Scale - could not possibly get any worse. Even if an apocalypse occurred, even if the Valerian isles were overrun with demons and Ogres and the screams of millions sounded in his hears, the young man could not imagine himself in a darker mood than he felt as he stood in the halls of Brigantys after his father's death.<p>

The Sibyl, Olivya, grasped Denam's hands firmly.

"Don't you remember?" She gently lifted his hands to her face, where he put his fingers onto her forehead. "You tried to save me, but we both had to be fished out of the river by my elder sister." Denam ran his fingers over her forehead gently, a bit uncomfortable at how close the Sibyl stood. Yes, he did remember something of what she said, but. . .

"But wasn't that Catiua. . .?" He spoke more to himself than Olivya. His memory was cloudy; he had not thought of those events in years. As he mused, he realized it could not have been Catiua; as he remembered it, he had called for his sister, but to his great distress his elder had never come to his rescue. Denam did not remove his hand from Olivya's warm forehead and ran his fingers along the scar. He didn't remember much other than flashes, warm feelings, and, most of all, happiness and contentment. But if he remembered the event Olivya spoke of, it meant she had not lied to him. "No!" he whispered out. She couldn't be right!

"Is it really so bad, Denam?" Denam flinched as the woman called him by his first name. _Bakram. _His mind repeated it over and over, even though he knew he stood in Brigantys' hall like a fool. Denam had completed his goal: A parley and alliance with the Order of Philaha. Their neutrality and support was secured, perhaps even too well as he considered his relationship with not one, but two high-ranked members. As Olivya finally seemed to get impatient of Denam's constant denial, she took his arm and led him through the halls. She did not necessarily give him a tour, but she explained what she saw with only light detail, and let Denam's imagination fill in the rest. The atmosphere was very different from Phidoch's; it was cool, almost lonely, and Denam did not feel welcome. His rather uncomfortable introduction was likely one cause of the subtle hostility, but Olivya's presence seemed to silence any dissenters. Denam appreciated the coolness after a few days of wet, hot, humidity that persisted in his travels from Phidoch.

The return to the Resistance camp was uneventful. Olivya asked questions as to how he had been, where he had grown up after he left Heim, and anything she could think of related to his preferences, his favorite food, his sleep habits, how he liked to practice with his weapon, and more. Denam answered as truthfully as he could, but did not understand her fascination. She was a sweet girl, and Denam had begun to remember a bit of their shared time together as children, but she seemed so passionate about him, which he could not entirely relate to in regards to the young Cleric. It was not a bad sense; it was simply that no one had ever treated him that way before. Even Catiua, who he spent much of his time with, had never had such an interest in _him. _It was both disconcerting and pleasant at the same time. She was perhaps the first ray of light in his dark, cruel reality.

Denam and Olivya were met by Cistina who had made an entirely uncharacteristic squeal of delight and rushed over, Denam had heard her footsteps, to Olivya. Denam stood speechless as Olivya did. . .something to Cistina. Denam assumed they hugged and felt a bit embarrassed that he intruded on their private time. Olivya had mentioned she'd three sisters, so if she and Cistina were siblings, that meant they were related to Cerya as well; it made some sense, as Cerya had not only recognized Denam, but also knew that Prancet was his father. He learned more and more about his companions by the day; he didn't particularly remember Cistina as he did Olivya - or even Cerya, as he now knew who the "presence" that saved he and Olivya had been. Cerya's mind must have been too focused on the Front to mention anything to him, and Cistina likely did not remember, as Denam had not.

Cistina and Olivya chatted pleasantly as the Valkyrie helped Olivya escort Denam back to his tent. Denam tried to smile whenever they spoke to him or of him, but, Denam noted particularly, the subject of his sight was never brought up. Did they think him incapable of discussing it? Was it rude to approach him about it, perhaps? Denam knew people were curious, he heard soldiers and servants speak whenever he passed; the Commander wished they would come and say it to his face rather than whisper rumors about him. When they reached his tent, Denam excused himself as politely as he could. He needed time to himself, to muse on his thoughts: his father, his blood, his incompetence, his future, they all seemed so bleak. The two women were respectful, but were too excited to speak with each other to care much for Denam and his internal conflicts. He did not wish to burden them, nor did he blame them; he would suffer alone.

The tent was simple, Denam knew, even for a Commander. There was a fireplace and his sleep mat was near it, on top of it, a large, bedroll. Denam had opted to travel light, much as his soldiers did, for he was a normal man, just as they were. He did not wish for special treatment. Denam stood in the middle of tent; the fire was little more than embers and did nothing to warm him, but it did not matter, for it was not the frigid air that was on his mind. Denam had promised his father he would save Catiua and bring peace, but how? What if she did not want to come? Did she hate him? Denam's thoughts turned darker. Did she enjoy the pain she caused? What if she intentionally sought to undo his dreams in spite? What happened if she, and Loslorien who backed her, won? What would happen to Valeria? How could Denam stop it? Denam realized he hadn't moved from the entrance to his tent. Though alone and of a foul mood, Denam was embarrassed by his own ridiculousness. The Commander cautiously felt his way across the room until he found what he sought: a small, thick blanket with a glass and pitcher that was placed beside his bedroll. Denam was relieved to find the water had already been poured and he drank the abnormally-cool liquid down quickly, almost in desperation, to force his thoughts away from the pessimistic direction they spun towards. He gasped as the painfully large made its way down his throat. Denam moved only a step until he found his bedroll and sat down forcefully, more a 'plop' than a 'sit,' the padding only lightly dulled the feel of the hard earth below him. He ran his hands through his hair and let out an exasperated sigh; the Commander did not wish to sit around and think, it only caused him more pain. He did his best to clear his mind, or to focus on the bitter, cool weather, but his mind inevitably found itself drawn back towards the problems he tried to avoid.

Little more than two minutes after he sat, Denam stood again and paced about the tent, some distance from the embers of the fire. He was restless and didn't want to just sit and do nothing. If he was a more selfish man, and not nearly as capable of commander, he might have ordered the troops to break camp and prepare for an immediate march to the Hagia. But Denam knew they needed the rest, especially after the long trek over the cold, dangerous terrain of the Bahanna Highlands - not to mention they would soon climb over he hot, miserable and even more dangerous Mount Hedon; the soldiers needed all the strength they could muster before they began their next trek. Denam, on the other hand, had no such desire for rest; in his anxiety, Denam walked, quickly, foolishly so, out of his tent. He did not know where he was going, nor did he have a particular goal in mind, Denam just wanted to get out of his closed off room and away from his problems. Denam walked aimlessly; he bumped into the soldiers often, but none seemed to take offense at the light, accidental nudges from their blind commander. On more than one occasion, the impact had even trigged conversation; though he lacked interest, Denam would nod and acknowledge their words in order to give his soldiers the appearance that he cares for their problems when, truthfully, he had far more than enough of his own. It was not until he had explored the camp for an hour or so that he realized he had no idea where he was. The Resistance's camp was large, cramped, and busy; Denam had become completely disoriented. He attempted to retrace his steps, only to find himself more lost than he had been moments earlier. Denam's pride did not allow him to ask for assistance immediately, but as his frustration - and stress - grew, he finally inquired, quietly and with a great deal of embarrassment, as to which direction the tents were to the first person he came across.

"Excuse me. . ." Denam started. His voice was confident but he certainly did not feel such. "Could you please direct me to the tents?"

Much to Denam's annoyance, the person, by the grunt Denam knew it to be a man, did not reply immediately and, when he did, he spoke simply: "That way." Denam wondered if the man was thick or purposely antagonized him with his rudeness, he was surprised that anyone would point in _any_ direction when a very obviously blind man stood in front of him. Denam's head and eyes remained wrapped in bandages, which should have been enough of a hint to the idiot of a soldier. To emphasize his silent annoyance, Denam pointed very obviously at his face, just under his eyes. After a long moment, the fool made a light stutter as he realized his mistake. Denam felt remarkably satisfied at the reaction, even though he knew it was inappropriate for him to feel so; it was likely his dark mood that made him so harsh. The man finally continued. "To your left, straight ahead. They're clustered; you might have a problem finding yours without someone's help."

Denam nodded and thanked the man as he turned in the direction. Denam continued his short "journey," but as he did so, he noted he ran into far fewer people than he had on his way out of the main camp. Perhaps he had explored further than he intended? It was getting late; there was a chill in the air and Denam's face stung lightly from the cool breeze. He wondered if it would snow again; the previous night's snow was packed below his boots and made a crunch sound at every step. As Denam had lived by the sea for much of his life, snow had been a rare event, even as an adult he relished it and enjoyed the feel of the small flakes over his skin, at least until he became soggy, wet, and miserable. The chill calmed him and the harsh air in his lungs distracted him; it felt clean and crisp. Not only was the weather a welcome diversion, but it was the change he needed. It brought forth pleasant memories of happier times, with his father, his sister, and with Vyce, all who were lost to him. He remembered the cool fireplace in winter, and the way Father would always tell stories, or give the two young ones lessons on the Great Father. As his father had requested, he should learn to forgive and to forget, and focus on the pleasant times rather than be so sad and hateful.

It was not long before Denam finally made it back to the tents. He knew immediately when he had, for voices spoke loudly and people bustled around him. Denam felt his way around more cautiously, hands in front of him, and listened more intently than he had on his way out. He felt more rational, calm, and far less emotional. He quickly asked someone where his tent was, and though he hated every moment of it, it made the journey back much faster. It was easier said than done, for the large tents constantly blocked his way, and ranked soldiers walked past him, which threw him off his trek. He had to ask at least three separate people before he finally was told "you're almost there." The snow had melted around the camps and the ground was muddy and unpleasant; Denam knew his boots and the bottom of trousers were likely a disaster, as he could feel the wetness against his calf. The air, too, was not as chill - or perhaps it was, but the constant presence of bodies pressed together against him made it seem less so. Denam continued his trek; in hindsight, the decision to leave his tent alone had been incredibly foolish, but it _had _taken his mind away from his worries, so he did not regret it. Denam no longer felt so restless; he simply wanted to sit down by his tent's small fire, drink a glass or two of wine, and relax. It had been a long, horrible day and it needed to end quickly, for his sanity's sake.

As Denam passed by a tent, he found himself distracted by the words that came from inside. It was inappropriate to listen in, but the words, their intonation, and the accent stopped him in his tracks.

"Ah. ..Hobyrim. . ." The voice was light, breathless, and very feminine. Denam did not recognize the voice, nor did he know who it belonged to, however, Oelias had mentioned Hobyrim had information for him, and perhaps it would be a good time to see what he wanted to speak about. Denam felt lightly along the side of the tent until he found the closed entrance. He felt a little remorse at his interruption, but Denam would not take much of his time. Denam lightly pushed the tent flap open and was greeted by a burst of warm air.

"Exc-" Denam was interrupted by a loud inhale of breath from Hobyrim's female guest. Even from his position in the doorway Denam could tell that both of the inhabitants of the tent gasped heavily, as if they could not catch their breath. The small tent was surprisingly warm as he considered that the flap was easily opened with only slightly more pressure than the wind and he did not hear the crackle of a fire, but it was the smell hit him the hardest, it was thick in the air and smelled of sweat, and. . .something else. As he considered their reaction, the Commander temporarily concluded that Hobyrim had practiced on the fields and asked for assistance to change his clothes to something more practical for the evening.

"Y-You!" The guest hissed, her words soaked with venom. The voice was not familiar at first, but its striking accent soon caused Denam to recognize it as the voice of the female Lodissian who had attacked him only days ago when they had taken Phidoch. Oelias had mentioned Hobyrim wanted to speak with him about her, Denam remembered, yet the Galgastani woman had not elaborated. Apparently, Hobyrim knew a great deal more than he let on.

"Calm, love." Hobyrim's voice was a bit breathless, Denam had never heard it as such before, as he was usually calm and controlled, even in the midst of battle. Denam's mind focused around the second word the elder man spoke. So this woman was. . .the pieces fell into place. The heat, the smell, the closed tent, the gasps, and the breathlessness. . .Denam prayed to Philaha that he was wrong, but he could not prevent his blush. He was glad Hobyrim couldn't see him; Denam was glad he couldn't see _himself. _ But what did that mean for Hobyrim? Did he betray the Resistance? Denam did not know whether to feel mortified that he had walked in during their private time, angry that Hobyrim had kept this from him, or, to his horror, curious. Denam's hormones wanted to know how Hobyrim dealt with copulation without his sight, perhaps by touch? He forced the thoughts out of his head - _this is not the time to think such, Denam! _

"I. .I. . " Denam was unable to bring to voice his thoughts. Instead, he spoke the first thing that came to mind. "I'm sorry!" It only caused his face to heat more. He had not felt so immature in years; it reminded him of the time Vyce had first explained what males and females do together when naked. He could have salvaged the situation had he sounded more mature and indifferent, but the Commander only continued to make it worse for himself. Footsteps from one of the room's occupants rushed over to him and Denam instinctively took a step back. A hand clenched painfully around his wrist and pulled him back inside before he could flee from embarrassment. The hand was small, but the skin was worn; the size alone was enough to tell him that it did not belong to Hobyrim.

"I could not kill you before, but I will now." She brought her face close to Denam's to whisper the words, as if she did not want Hobyrim to hear. They came out almost as a hiss. Her breath was warm on his face and he turned away. She was pressed so closely that Denam could feel her nudity; her breasts against him was the last thing he needed, for it distracted him from more immediate threats and goals.

"Ozma." was the only word Hobyrim spoke and the entire room fell silent. Even Denam's breath hitched at the quiet, but firm, words from the elder male. As if she felt reprimanded, the woman released Denam's wrist and took a step back, far enough to give them both space, but close enough that Denam could still feel her. Denam didn't breathe, the entire situation was beyond odd and Hobyrim would need quite an explanation to get out of this without the entire Resistance's collective sword to his throat. Hobyrim's voice took on a calmer tone. "My apologies, Commander." Hobyrim coughed lightly in embarrassment. Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, his dark mood, and his own caution, Denam smiled. It was nice to know he was not the only one who found the event uncomfortable. His smile fell soon after as Hobyrim continued. "I've been meaning to speak to you about our new. . .companion."

Denam finally regained himself enough to speak confidently. He did his best to pretend there was not a very naked woman, and possibly a very naked Hobyrim, in front of him. "You'd best have an explanation for this, Hobyrim."

"Aye. Ozma, put some clothes on." Denam thought it was not particularly necessary for he could not see her anyway, but thought it better to not say otherwise. "Commander, please sit down. This will take some time."

Cautiously, Denam slowly made his way further into the tent, beyond the Lodissian woman, who refused to allow him more than a step or two of freedom until he sat down as Hobyrim had suggested. The fire was out and the ground was a cool slush. The Resistance didn't have the servants, or the manpower, to carry around chairs or tables, so he would have to do with their small blanket on the ground. Denam certainly hoped it was not the one they had been - Denam cut his thoughts off, as he had more important things to worry about than where the two had sex. Finally satisfied at Denam's obedience, the female Knight Commander rustled around behind him, Denam assumed she dressed herself, as Hobyrim began his tale. The brash woman was blessedly silent as Hobyrim spoke. The Lodissian Templar-turned-Mercenary weaved his words well and Denam could hardly believe them. He didn't _want _to believe them, yet what choice did he have? Hobyrim had not lied before and Denam could not fault him for his desire to kill Balxephon. Denam, too, desired to kill two particular members of Loslorien and no rationality or promises to his father would soothe the hatred that burned within him. Before Denam could say anything, the woman he now knew as Ozma spoke up. He was surprised at her words, as they were in Hobyrim's defense, even if their tone was harsh and distasteful, as if she hated to even speak with the Commander. Denam would rather not speak with her, either, for she had been one of the ones who killed his father, but for the future of Valeria he would accept her presence. She just needed to calm herself and let go of her hatred, as Denam willed himself to do.

"You should be able to empathize with him; you sister blinded you." The woman seemed to have finished with her clothes, as she had long gone silent and sat, Denam assumed, beside Hobyrim.

Hobyrim seemed surprised at Ozma's revelation, his voice the only indicator of his emotions. "So the rumors are true. I thought them baseless exaggerations."

Denam sighed before he could stop himself. "They are true." Denam mused in silence for a few moments. Hobyrim had been a valuable ally, but he had no direct loyalty to the Resistance. He spoke to Denam as a friend, but did not necessarily care for all Valerians as such. Hobyrim was brilliant with his blade, but what happened if he killed Balxephon before the war ended? But Denam also knew that, for all his worries, Hobyrim had put a great deal of trust into Denam. Denam could easily turn the man over to Loslorien, so it was not as if the Resistance was the only one who was at risk in the odd alliance. More than all else, Denam could not afford to turn away any allies; he had not made it as far as he had with distrust. The air was thick with tension as Hobyrim awaited Denam's cautious response. "As long as you've no intention of hiding any more information from us, we share similar goals."

"I've told you all I know. Ozma's presence was unexpected, but I could not bring myself to kill her." Denam respected his desire to protect the woman he loved; he, too, did not know if he would be able to kill Catiua, if necessary, even if their relationship was one of siblings and not lovers. He did not know if he could even fight her. Denam supposed the meeting with Hobyrim had been good for him; it had gotten his mind entirely off of the worries that plagued him earlier in the day, which included his father's death, the revelation that he was Bakram, and the constant, persistent presence of his sister and the revelation of why she was Princess. Hobyrim's story deeply disturbed him; Denam almost wanted to comfort the other man. His anger cooled at Hobyrim, but he still felt cautious about the Loslorien commander. For all Hobyrim had tried to convince her of Denam's innocence, she remained spiteful. Denam had told her that, for his father's sake, he held no grudge, but also could not force her to forgive him, but she seemed to only grow madder at the acceptance. She had even gone as far as to call him a pretentious, ignorant child. Somehow, Denam knew, their relationship would only become rockier, but so long as she caused no trouble, Denam would accept her presence. Her desire to fight by her lover's side, and for her betterment of her country, was to be applauded.

"I understand." Denam answered. "Thank you for sharing your story with me. Oelias mentioned you wished to speak with me, so I assume this is what it was about?"

"Yes." Hobyrim said no more and Denam stood. He recognized there was little else to say and that he intruded on their private time, more so than he had before. He almost wished he had been so courteous before he entered the tent. Denam silently thanked Hobyrim and attempted to speak his farewell to Ozma, who responded only with a grunt. As he felt his way to the entrance, his hands across the thick cloth that made up the tent, Hobyrim spoke again. "Commander, I know it's difficult. If you'd like I could. . . ."

Denam didn't answer until he found the entrance slit. He turned around and smiled, even though neither Hobyrim nor he could see it. "I'd like that."

* * *

><p>Denam wanted to throw his sword down in frustration. The motions of swordplay were familiar, Denam knew them as well as his own breath, but entirely foreign all at once. Hobyrim had been kind enough to spend time with Denam daily in order to retrain him in his skill, but it was nightmarishly difficult. Hobyrim constantly reassured Denam that it took him a long time to re-familiarize himself with battle, but Denam felt almost as if he went backwards at each new lesson. He could barely parry or deflect any of the elder man's attacks.<p>

"Patience, Denam" They practiced informally and when no one else was around, Hobyrim and Denam had become close enough to speak on a first-name basis, without titles. "It will take time to relearn everything you once know."

"I don't have time to be patient." Denam took a few breaths to calm himself. He could not sit around and wait. The shadows had recently told him that Catiua was in Barnicia; Denam and his strategists had constantly argued over what the next move would be. They had to move, but there were problems that prevented an immediate assault. A recent drought had caused many farmers and their crops to wither, so supplies were expensive and overpriced, as well as fiercely competed for. Politically, Denam had begun to receive heat from the Walister nobles who wanted one of their own to lead; Denam was, in their mind, little more than a commoner, whether or not it was the truth was up for debate. Another problem was _when _to march; the Resistance presently had the advantage of surprise, but if they moved too quickly they would be unprepared, but if they moved too slowly, the chance could be lost.

"If you continue with that mentality, you'll get nowhere. Now, we begin anew, remember: listen for the change in my balance." Denam nodded. He had slowly been able to understand more of what Hobyrim said, but much was subtle or even mysterious. Denam had barely noticed the way steps sounded differently based off of balance and weight when he could see, but after some practice, he started to understand what Hobyrim spoke of. Hobyrim's lessons were very different from everything he once knew; with his assistance, Denam soon began to realize that there was much more subtlety in swordplay than he had ever realized or even utilized. It frustrated him that he knew so little in what he had once been considered relatively skill in and he gripped at his blade hard in response. Denam had come to terms with his Bakram blood, but his consistent failure at what was once natural and the threat of Lodis that loomed just beyond the horizon darkened his mood and made both his actions and thoughts irrational. Hobyrim lightly struck his blade at Denam in multiple positions; as expected, Denam was unable to block most of the strikes. Even a light attack from Hobyrim caused Denam to reel backwards and grunt; he had bruises all over his body from the training blade that the Commander would heal on his own time.

Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps he finally understood Hobyrim's vague directions, but Denam was able to block Hobyrim's last attack. Denam gasped in surprise, but Hobyrim seemed to expect it. Hobyrim praised Denam as a result, in his own way "You must feel your opponent's motions just as you do your own. You cannot predict, you must reason by the cues their body gives you. Soon it will become natural."

Denam frowned, even though neither could see it. He did not feel as if he used logic, he felt more that he reacted based off of circumstance, but perhaps that was how it must be, for a time, until he was more familiar with swordplay without sight. He had to admit, Hobyrim had been remarkably helpful. He had given him tips and advice on not only his blade, but in everyday life as well, such as how to more easily make his way around and not have to rely on others as often. The independence had given a sense of the happiness he had lost, and it removed the desperation he originally felt at his blindness. Denam had not realized how much he took for granted before; in many ways the Bakram was a changed man who experienced the world in an entirely different way. He would never be able to read reports by himself again, nor would he be able to look over a battlefield for immediate appraisal, but in return Denam had been surprised that his command had become more efficient than it had been before. Rather than keep his feelings and thoughts to himself, he had been required to communicate them to his captains and comrades. On more than one occasion, the additional knowledge of circumstances had allowed the captains to act more effectively. Denam did not want to vocalize his more subtle plans and strategies, but as he had started to do so, and to trust his companions more, he found that it only helped the Resistance.

Again Hobyrim attacked and again Denam was unable to defend. It went on and on for almost a quarter of an hour until it occurred to Denam exactly what Hobyrim meant. He could not just react blindly, it made him flail around like a fool, but on the other hand a calculated defense would only make him slow and vulnerable to attacks. Denam had continually tried to predict Hobyrim's attacks, but it was almost impossible for him in his state. Denam felt like an idiot; he moved too quickly, he needed to first understand his opponent before he could predict. It had been a very simple lesson when he had first learned swordplay, but in his experience he had forgotten it. Even with his new revelation firmly in mind, defense did not become any easier, but he felt he finally understood the tactics Hobyrim spoke of. When Denam focused too much on the timing, he missed the "balance" that Hobyrim continually scolded him about; when he focused more on the "balance" he missed the timing as he moved too slowly. It was a constant struggle for balance, but that he had learned what his problems were, they were more easily solved.

"Denam, if I may. . ." Denam gave a sound of acknowledgement as he lightly massaged his sore shoulder. "For a time, many of us worried that you had fallen into depression. Even now, you're more somber. If you do not mind me saying, you were very kind and understanding before. You attempted to please everyone you met - it was what charmed many to your side and still does. But now you focus only on the Resistance and give little thought to anything else."

Denam sighed and lowered his blade entirely. Did he act so differently? "Much has happened." It was an understatement; Denam's world had been turned backwards and upside-down on at least three occasions in little more than a Scale. "I am no longer that person." Denam could hardly relate to the man he had been before Phidoch. Ignorant, childish, perhaps, in his desire to follow what he felt to be "good," and blind - more figuratively than literally - to the pain his actions caused others. Vyce had died because Denam had not realized his effect on him. Catiua had left and Denam had not pursued her. He did not rush to his father's side when Cerya had told him when he was held. For all the Commander spoke of doing what he believed to be right, he had abandoned what little family he had left. In his heart he knew he could not have put the war aside, or his feelings of hatred and disgust for Loslorien's actions in Golyat, but he also felt he should have made some attempt to help them. When he finally found his father, he had died; Denam could have prevented the death had he gone after him. When he found Catiua, she had attacked him and betrayed him; if he had listened to her, or gone to find her, she would not have sided with the Lodissians. Denam clenched his fists and breathed heavily in anger; he was a fool, such a fool. He could accept he was Bakram, even if his Walister followers could be alienated if the word spread, but his own actions tore him apart from the inside.

Hobyrim had not spoken. He left Denam to his thoughts, but the younger could tell that the Lodissian awaited elaboration. Denam did not want to continue, but at the same time he wanted nothing more than to speak of his worries. "My father is dead because of me." The Bakram whispered quietly; he knew that Hobyrim had heard the admission. "My selfishness caused me to lose my sister and my best friend." It was as if a dam within him broke, all that he hid away flowed up into desperate, lonely words - much of them entirely unintentional. "Growing up, I learned I lived a lie. I am no leader to the Walister - for I am not even Walister myself! They would abandon me if they knew I was of their former oppressors, they might even think I plotted with Brantyn - who" Denam emphasized sarcastically "just so happens to be my uncle." Denam paused and caught his breath. He had not spoken much, but it was far more than he usually did, and with much more emotion. It was the first time Denam had opened up to anyone in well over 5 years. "At one point, after I lost my sight, I wanted naught more than to give up. To have to rely on others for even the most basic tasks when I am supposed to be a Commander leading them is unacceptable. I do not deserve the position; it fell to me by default because none other was skilled enough to take upon the mantle."

Denam finally fell silent. He felt deeply shamed at his speech, for they were all words he meant to keep inside, away from anyone else. Hobyrim seemed to think on Denam's words for a time. "You blame yourself pointlessly for your father's death, and for losing your friends. You are but one man, you can only do so much. Would your father have wanted you to give up saving your country to help him?" Denam disagreed, for if he had helped his father, the entire situation would not be as out of control as it was and Loslorien would not know of Catiua's existence. "I do not suggest you avoid responsibility, but you must also understand that if no matter what you do, there will be sacrifices."

"I know that!" His answer was clipped and annoyed. Denam knew better than anyone else that sacrifices had to be made. "I should have helped them somehow."

"Help them by realizing their goal. What did your father want? What did your friend want? What does your sister want?" Hobyrim paused. "You should be careful with the Bakram bit, I imagine. But is not the Resistance now less about the freedom of the Walister and more for the freedom of Valeria? Even if others learn of your bloodline, they should accept it - rationally, that is. I suppose, in reality it will not be so easy."

His words were meant to be kind, but they only upset Denam more. Even in his distress, Denam as if Hobyrim shared an understanding with him. The Lodissian, too, had been unable to prevent his father's death? Had he not been betrayed by his brother? More than that, Hobyrim had been banished from his homeland, entirely yet he still fought desperately for a better future for it. As he thought on his companion's plight, he realized that perhaps he had not thought of his problems in such a way. Even if Denam lost the support of the Resistance, he could - no _would -_ still fight. He could still bring forth the future he desired. He should not give up so easily; as Hobyrim had recovered from the ashes of defeat, rejection, and despair, so should he. As Hobyrim had saved Ozma from certain death, so could Denam save Catiua. He could not give up before he even started.

His voice held a bit more confidence as he replied, more controlled, but also with a tinge of sorrow that he was unable to hide. "You're correct, I am well aware." Denam had to be the strength for others who did not have the ability to protect themselves; he could not let his own problems overwhelm him. "I must start by bettering myself, only then I can save my sister."

"That's the spirit. Let us stop this morbid conversation and continue our practice."

Denam raised his blade. He felt renewed, even empty; it was as if the release of his worries and the conclusion he reached lifted a heavy weight from his shoulders. He grimaced in pain as Hobyrim landed a particularly heavy blow on his shoulder, but, unlike before, with a clearer mind Denam found that he learned Hobyrim's subtle, wordless lessons more easily. He did not make the same mistake more than twice, and even had been able to more consistently block attacks - which only around one in ten, but still an improvement.

Denam's faith in himself was renewed; he had something to fight for.

* * *

><p>Denam felt as if he was in the climax of a bard's tale. Soon, the valiant, noble champion would save the fair Princess from the hostage who controlled her and they would ride away into the sunset to live happily ever after. It was ridiculous to think of himself as such, but the scene thatplayed out before the Commander certainly felt like a dream or a legend. Perhaps it was simply his imagination that got the best of him, but with the man he had sought over the previous year and a half - the one who destroyed Golyat, and his sister by his antagonist's side, in the midst of scores of enemies, he imaged it was an epic saga for the ages. If he survived the war, he knew the tales he would tell to his children.<p>

As much as he had practiced with Hobyrim, the young Commander had been unable to fully master the reuse of his blade before the assault on Barnicia. Denam's magic, however, remained relatively unaffected. As long as he knew someone was near him, and whether or not they were hostile, he could easily target spells, for both offense and defense. Denam took on a more defensive role; he had practiced more with his Light magic in recent weeks than he had in some time. He began to enchant weapons for his companions, to heal the wounded, and to cast spells more frequently in general. He was not used to such a defensive position, but he appreciated how everyone had attempted to re-integrate him into their battle strategies.

Olivya, in particular, was helpful to Denam in-battle. Olivya was assigned to lead the Resistance Clerics and she did her job well. She would order groups around as she analyzed the battle and told Denam who was weakened and who needed assistance most. She stayed by Denam's side and Denam felt no fear that she would lose or abandon him in the midst of chaos. Even beside Catiua, he had never felt such security, perhaps because he had not allowed himself to. He had been so focused on self-reliance that he had been blind to Catiua's warmth and support. Now that Denam had calmed and accepted the help, he realized just how much his friends would give for both him and the future of the Resistance.

Scores of men filled the large hall, but the room was overwhelmingly quiet. The breaths of soldiers rang around him, some more confident than others. He could feel their discomfort and fear, but also their anticipation; the entire room brimmed with it. Olivya quietly told him the layout of the room; Tartaros was on the uppermost level, Catiua stood beside him. Before the two, on a large staircase to the left, for which Denam assumed the hall was named, were enemies that practically lined up to be slain. Olivya mentioned the Lodissians had an obvious height advantage, but lacked a great deal of Archers to take advantage of it. Loslorien's current battle setup had some ranged attackers, but not nearly enough; Denam locked that bit of information away as a mistake on Tartaros' part as he quickly spoke his orders and assigned positions. To his surprise, Ozma had opted to join Hobyrim for battle. From his friends, he had been told she was amazingly skilled and had followed commands without question. Ozma and Denam had still not spoken on friendly terms, but as Hobyrim and Denam spent more time together and Denam came to the realization of his almost childish foolishness, Ozma had calmed. She tolerated his presence when before she would scoff and ignore him entirely. It was a small, almost pointless, victory in the larger war, but to him it signified he was no longer so selfish.

Tartaros' words were the toll that began the battle: "May the best man win."  
>*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*<p>

There was a woman with Denam. The foul wench clutched onto him like trash in the gutter. Catiua eyed the woman, whose hand constantly returned to Denam's arm, her fingers lightly ran up and down in a possessive gesture that Denam ignored; it showed the girl was little more than his plaything. A rage filled the Princess, not only had Denam abandoned Catiua, he had done so for another woman! Denam looked almost as if he were a different man from when she had seen him last, in Phidoch; his demeanor, his clothing, his very posture had changed. Only time would tell if the change was skin-deep. Catiua's hand fell onto the hilt of her blade as her eyes pierced through the Resistance troops. Loslorien was vastly outnumbered and both she and Tartaros knew they had every disadvantage.

"Catiua, heed me. You must flee." Tartaros hissed under his breath at her. Catiua did not move, her eyes remained on Denam and his female companion. Hate welled inside of her; that selfish, foolish boy had forgotten about her entirely! He looked satisfied with himself as he murmured what Catiua assumed to be orders. Why was he not sad? Why was he not lonely? Did he not suffer as much as she did without him? He truly cared so little for her that he did not give her thought as he charged into battle?

"I will not!" Catiua snapped back. Her eyes fell on the woman in blue. She had left Denam's side temporarily to tend to a small group of Clerics; Denam remained near the back of the large army, she could see those around him were specialized in magic as well as weaponry, the Princess assumed them to be Rune Fencers and Valkyries who brought up support from the rear. It was odd to see him charged with control of the mages, but she thought little of it. What Denam did was not her concern; what that clingy woman in blue did, however. . . Catiua took a step towards Tartaros and clung at his arm. "But Sir! I worry for you. What if you were to be harmed?" Catiua used the warmest, sweetest tone she could muster on Tartaros; she saw many confused eyes on both sides stare at her. She gave a light, satisfied smile as whispers started. The woman in blue barely glanced up at her or cared what Catiua did; she instead walked back over to Denam who also paid no heed to the Princess. In a bout of embarrassment, Catiua remembered why Denam did not look or respond to her; she softly ran her fingers over her small, new, elaborate black pendant, which held Denam's right eye that she had stolen. It was her most prized possession. The Princess felt a brief flash of foolishness at her actions with Tartaros; _of course _he did not see her, she had made sure of that herself. It had been an odd moment of brutality for her; she did not take pleasure in Denam's pain, but he needed to know the severity and cruelty of his actions to her and to others. She had punished him for his selfishness.

"Enough games, girl." Tartaros pushed her off, not forcefully, but firmly. Catiua released his arm and watched as he took a step forward and addressed the room, but his lone eye fell upon Denam. "May the best man win." Almost in unison, weapons were drawn throughout the room in a loud clang. Catiua glanced down to her goal, the single person she was interested in, all her sight focused on one man: Denam; it would be difficult, as he surrounded himself with mages, and she knew her "brother" in many ways was a competent, controlled caster in his own right, Prancet - Catiua refused to think of the man who raised her as "Father" - had made sure he could at least use Light magic effectively. She would not kill him - No, Catiua had no intention of such a pointless act of violence. Instead he would serve her loyally; Denam would never leave her again.

Both armies moved towards each other in unison; the heaviest conflict seemed to be on the stairs. Catiua pushed her way through the troops on both sides. She held her blade in hand and cut her way through the Resistance members when necessary, but tried her best to avoid battle, for her own safety. She was skilled, but many of these men had strength and experience over her. Grunts and moans of pain started almost immediately on both sides and, soon after, the smell of sweat and heavy, hot breaths filled the battlefield. Catiua's own breath was ragged from nervousness; she was foolish to run right into the middle of the enemy troops, she knew. But her determination pushed her on. She loved her brother, but she hated him too. Her emotions tore her apart; she wanted him to suffer, but she wanted to hug him and demand he stay by her side. Even more, she wanted answers that only he had to clear her thoughts. She wanted a reason to hate him more, so she could force the memories from her mind. The Princess did not like the confusion that billowed within her. She needed to end it, one way or the other.

Denam's troops ignored her, for the most part. Her brother was soft, as always, and had ordered them not to harm her. Catiua was not fool enough to attack them in the depths of their own front line, lest she be at the sharp end of countless swords. With the active soldiers that surrounded her, Catiua felt a bit disoriented and dizzy at all the motion; she had never stood on the front lines, always behind Denam and Vyce, and now Tartaros, so the environment was exotic and it frightened her. Through the mass of bodies, Catiua every once in a while caught sight of her goal; Denam remained in a relatively small, stable area and acted as a support caster. She slowed her pace as she approached her brother, each step quieter than the last. She spent a moment to examine her brother from a distance; his hair was a bit longer, as if he had not trimmed it. His armor was fine, well crafted, and he had new clothes fit for a commander. His eyelids were closed, but he kept his head high in confidence and did not draw his blade. Notably, Denam had small, fresh scars all over his lower cheeks she could tell had been recently healed with Light magic. He had obviously attempted to shave and had cut himself.

"Denam" Catiua whispered quietly. She stood some distance from him and continued to stare at him. She was shocked, less than a second later, when Denam turned towards his head in direction – not necessarily at her, but closely enough to let Catiua know he heard the words. She had spoken quietly enough that a normal person could not have heard her over the clash of weaponry and the hum of spells, but, then again, it _was_ Denam, and he had never been quite normal.

"Sister. . ." was Denam's quiet reply, but it was a different quietness, more that he simply did not need to speak as loudly as he had before "Why are you here?" It had only been two Scales since she last saw him, but in that time, he had become almost unrecognizable. Her last memory of him had been him on the floor in Phidoch with blood that poured from his eyes; he had been shocked and pained at Catiua's punishment. Catiua had been so angry and upset that she had only wanted to hurt him that day, but knew prudence was her greatest ally. She had fled the scene beside Tartaros. Over time, as she spent more time away from her once-brother, the Princess had calmed; she felt less need to harm him and more need to show him how wrong he had been.

"It is a surprise, is it not? Do you expect me to come beg to take you back after you abandoned me?" Catiua attempted to provoke him, but he had a calm, almost curious expression. He did not even react to her barb, on his face was no anger or sadness, only control and placidness. The apathy to her words brought forth annoyance.

"No, sister." Denam did not seem nervous in the least and, if he was worried, he hid it incredibly well. Catiua's hands shook on the hilt of her blade in a moment of weakness at the sound of his voice; she did not think she could kill Denam, no matter how much he had hurt her. Everything about him contrasted with the battle around them; his quiet, calm, passive nature silently hid his more passionate and spiteful emotions which had even overwhelmed him in the past. It felt to Catiua as if time stood still, as if the battle had stopped its rage and none but she and Denam existed. "I know you don't understand but, even now, I fight for you."

"Liar!" Catiua snapped. Her nervousness faded and was quickly replaced entirely with rage. Even after so long, Denam deluded himself that he did the right thing for her. She wanted to hit him over the head to knock some sense into him, but his head was so thick it would likely break whatever she hit him with. Denam did not react to Catiua's outburst, instead he murmured a quiet order to a nearby group of Rune Fencers, who entered the fray a moment later with their spells. "You put the country above me." Catiua's voice raised in pitch and a few around her, both Loslorien and Resistance, turned to look at her in confusion. Her breaths were heavy and ragged in her anger; it was obvious Denam did not understand the severity of his actions. Catiua's hand tightened over her blade and she took a step forward. She did not wish to, but she needed to force him to accept - even if she must permanently cripple him to do so! This was the reason why she could not stand Denam, the erratic emotions he caused her. One minute she declared she could never hurt him, the next she desperately wished to.

Denam heard Catiua's approach and took a few steps back. Catiua frowned; it felt cruel, to incapacitate her brother who could barely fight her. He had drawn his blade and held it steadily before him, but she knew he was limited in what he could do with it. After all, he could not even see her motions; a blind man with a blade was no threat to anyone. She needed to find a way to minimize the damage done to him. Foolish or not, Denam seemed to truly believe what he did was right and did not purposely inflict harm on her. Perhaps magic would better serve her? Catiua channeled her power as she planned her assault; feints with the blade, magic to incapacitate. She might even land a sleep or paralyze spell on him, if he did not pay attention. It was not until she took another step forward towards Denam and actively prepared a spell in defense that she was stopped by the points of three blades. Denam stood impassively in front of her, even without his sight he knew what had happened; more likely was that he had planned the ambush all along. Catiua had been so focused on Denam that she had not paid attention to her surroundings. Denam had simply acted as a distraction

"You would attack me?" Catiua could hardly believe it, her voice was high-pitched and angry. To her surprise, Denam turned away from her. He did not seem to care the direction, but she knew it symbolized that their "battle" was over.

"No, sister, I will not." Denam immediately spoke his orders. "Release her, but do not let her come close again. I will not take her hostage; if we do so, we are no better than Loslorien." Catiua was amazed at his gall. Her? A hostage? What nonsense! Catiua knew she was at a disadvantage with three of Denam's Valkyries and Rune Fencers around her, so she released her power in defeat. Tartaros called from some distance away - she was amazed she could hear him at all.

"You must flee, Catiua. Stop being a fool!" In a moment of rare submission, Catiua acknowledged the Lodissian and lowered her blade. She did not sheathe it, but she allowed herself to be escorted from within the Resistance's back lines. Denam had apparently given orders not to harm her, as none attacked her or gave her any more than an odd look. To Catiua's surprise, she saw multiple familiar faces as she glanced over the troops, ones that looked at her with disgust, even distaste. Why? Did they not see she did what was best for their country? Denam only prolonged the battle; Catiua's leadership, even if she must be a tool, would bring Valeria happiness and prosperity. She cursed her brother's stubbornness. In his desire to do what was good, he only caused more pain.

In a move that likely surprised Tartaros as much as it did her when she reached the upper level, Catiua fled. She ran through the Loslorien troops and knocked any in front of her out of her way. She cursed in pain as her body hit their heavy armor, but ignored it. Loslorien was desperately outnumbered, she knew it, Tartaros knew it, and Denam knew it. Barnicia would fall and Catiua was not fool enough to wait as it crumbled around her. She fled to the upper level and through the broken, dilapidated halls. Her boots loudly echoed down the hall as the sound of battle faded in the distance behind her. Catiua's breaths were loud as she fled, her emotions tumultuous. She felt shamed, that she had been forced to flee before she could continue to confront Denam, she was angry at Denam for his idiocy, confused at what she would do next, and even terrified of what the Resistance would do if they found her. Denam would not be so kind to allow her to escape a second time, she knew. Catiua picked a random room, one no different from the others in the castle to hide in. She slammed the door open and looked around at the empty, broken chamber. There was no place to hide but against the wall, but it would have to do. She curled up in a corner, away from the visibility of the door, and clutched her sword hilt against her chest.

She caught her breath over time, each exhale less shaky than the one before it; the Princess could no longer hear the battle in the distance, but she had no doubt it still went on. Tartaros would not be beaten so easily and Denam was thorough; despite his "nice" demeanor, her once-brother would kill all of his enemies, when necessary, and would spare none without a second thought. His hatred for the Lodissians remained after Golyat and, even if in a somewhat childish act, she knew Denam would kill every one of them who did not flee. As Catiua calmed, she looked again through the room, as she had little else to do. It was not special, which was exactly what she wanted. A fine coat of dust fell across the central table and the windowsill; the floor was dirty with dust and other much that she did not even with to contemplate about. She looked back to the door and noticed her boots had left a few small footsteps in the room that easily gave away her presence in a panic. Catiua almost got up to continue her escape, but she found she couldn't move. She lacked the motivation and the will to continue her struggle; The Princess didn't want to be with Tartaros and she had failed to save Denam from his own ignorance. He would continue his doomed path and likely get himself killed. She did not know whether or not to be angry at him or to cry for him. She loved Denam dearly, but she hated him just as much. It was Denam's fault that her life had been thrown into chaos! If only he had heeded her.

Catiua did not know how long she sat against the wall in silence, but time dragged on and it seemed like an eternity. She could see the window from her vantage and, from it, she could tell the sun set in the distance; it had been at least 6 hours. Had she fallen asleep? She did not know, but if she had she would not have realized it. Voices had started to call through the halls; they were not Lodissian or Bakram as far as she could tell by the accents, so she knew Denam had won. Catiua held her breath as the door to her room was pushed open. The person, or persons, did not enter the room, instead after what she assumed to be a glance around, the door slammed shut behind them and they moved on. Catiua released her breath; she just needed to wait until the search ended so she could sneak out. Where would she go? Did she wish to return to Tartaros in Heim? Could she, once again, go to Golyat? No, the Dark Knights had found her there once, they would find her again. She would need to leave the islands; the thought terrified her, she did not know if she could do so alone.

"Sir, we've already checked these rooms. The Princess isn't here." Catiua heard voices from down the hall. They became louder as they approached. Catiua heard the doors open and close as the "Sir;" she assumed it was Denam or one of his captains.

"We check them again." That was definitely Denam. His voice was confident and it reminded her of how Tartaros spoke to his men. She cringed at the thought; no, Denam was not like Tartaros. Denam had shown he would not butcher cities of innocents to reach his goals, and that was difference enough. Catiua panicked as Denam entered her room and walked throughout, his hands in front of him as he made his way through cautiously, in order to not bump into the furniture. Denam would find her, she knew. Perhaps if she held her breath again he would not be able to hear her and he would leave her be, since he could not see her. Catiua breathed in deeply and hoped Denam did not find her and, if he did, pretended she was not there.

She had no such luck, for his attendant entered the room behind him. "Sir, she-" Denam held up a hand to cut the unknown soldier off. Catiua stood up and almost fled, but quickly decided against it. She would just run into more soldiers, who would only drag her back to Denam. If she could speak with Denam alone, perhaps. . .

Denam recognized the sound of Catiua's steps and raised a hand to the man who came in with him. The soldier exited the room at Denam's dismissal and Catiua ran past her former "brother," into the far corner to but distance between them. Denam turned towards her; he likely heard the sound of her footsteps. He did not attempt to stop her, instead he remained where his was; his face was sad and even without eyes she could tell he held a sorrowful expression. He looked exhausted, broken, and worried. It was odd for Catiua to see him show any emotion at all; even as he grew up he had been cared for others more than himself and never let anyone see what troubled him. He did not show weakness, as that was how Prancet had raised him. But the Denam who stood before her was odd, different from what she remembered. He was more confident than he had been before, but that was not all, he was also self-assured and sadder. What struck her most was that it seemed as if he did not hold all of his worries in. He no longer had the permanent crease on his brow, it was as if he had accepted his problems, not just hid them away. The difference in him stunned her into silence. "Sister. . ." Denam's soft voice, his familiar intonation, and the slow, gentle way he approached her almost tore her apart. She could not remain rational with Denam as such, nor could she pretend to hate him. She was angry, frustrated, and felt as if he did not care for her, but she had never stopped caring for him.

"What will you do with me?" Catiua tried to make her voice as strong and determined as possible, but she was scared. The Denam in front of her was not the Denam she once knew, even if he seemed to think she would just run into his arms and pretend all was well.

"Do? Nothing." Denam seemed confused; Catiua knew he toyed with her.

"Then perhaps you should let me leave in peace." Her words took on an annoyed tone, but it was to protect herself. Catiua knew he would not allow it; she did not know if she even wanted to.

"Would you be happy with that?" Denam's voice was quiet and soft, but his face was expressionless. "I don't want you to suffer any longer, sister. If I must force you to stay and listen as I speak, I will." Catiua gasped at his dominant statement. She would never have expected to hear such from Denam, the kind boy who relied on Catiua's opinion for much, who always stayed by her side, even if he disagreed with her. She found she had no reply. ". . .I was wrong."

"So 'tis you who comes crying back to me!" She snapped back.

"No. I've seen the error of my ways. I love you, Catiua, please, return with me."

"Do you say these words just to please me? You and I both know there's little truth to them. Stop playing games!"

"There is no game! I loved you, father loved you. Father hid you when he could have prevented the war entirely. He could not bear to give up the one who called him 'pa.'" Denam's voice went low, as if he had not meant to reveal as much as he did.

"So now you resort to lies?" Catiua did not want to hear any more of his nonsense or excuses. She clutched at the blade by her side, not sure if she would use it on him, or herself - or perhaps both of them.

"Sister. . ." Denam's already-closed eyelids pressed hard together. He seemed deep in thought, as if he worked for another excuse in his effort to beg for her forgiveness. In a way, she enjoyed his desperation, but she wanted him to be done with it. If he could not give into her and bow to her rule, she might have to resort to desperate measures. Denam took a deep breath before he spoke again. "Stop being so foolish. I know I hurt you, and I regret it, but stop clinging to the past. It's the future we should be looking towards, our shared dreams. Nothing I say will make up for how I wronged you, but I want you to know you're not alone. You never were."

Catiua released the hold on her sword and it clattered to the floor in shock. Denam had been firm before, but just then he had outright scolded her. It had never been this way before; Catiua had watched over Denam for his entire life and yet. . .here it was Denam who watched over her. Their situations were reversed from any she had ever known. His words had not been harsh, or even anything that told her off, but it was his delivery and the way he accepted no less than obedience from what he ordered. This Denam was not the boy she once knew; this Denam was foreign to her, exotic. He terrified her and aroused her curiosity. He was familiar, yet entirely alien. Perhaps his blindness and her absence helped him more than she realized. She found herself breathless - this was not the Denam who had been her brother. This man was competent, independent, and all together different from anything she had seen from him. She wanted to tell him no, to demand he stop his lies, to leave her be, yet she heard the truth in his words. They were not word spoken to gain her favor.

Catiua turned her head down, more confused than she had ever been before. Denam approached and she desperately wanted to push him away. He brought forth so many emotions; it reminded her of her loneliness and her desperation, but as he held her, she felt warm and secure, as if there was no creature, mortal or otherwise, that could ever harm her. She did not want him to ever let go again. Denam. . .her Denam.

* * *

><p>Ozma Moh Glacius was bored. She tilted her glass of wine about in front of her and watched the red fluid seep down the sides. For what was supposed to be a grand and extravagant affair for the Resistance, the feast was, put quite bluntly, pathetic. She had larger parties that celebrated her birth when she was less than a decade old. Ozma did know she was a bit a hard on the Valerians; the Resistance did not have the resources to produce such a fine celebration as the ones she had been given. Ozma had been quite surprised; if the event had taken place at home it would have been considered an insult to one of the Princess' rank. Ozma stared at the room's occupants from her small table in the corner. She was not foolish enough to sit at the main table; there were many who were hostile towards her - and for good reason. She cared as little for them as they did for her. Many of the lower ranked Resistance members wobbled from intoxication and the higher ranked gossiped; Ozma saw more than a few plots that brewed below the otherwise steady surface.<p>

She supposed the food was acceptable, but Valerian cuisine did not particularly appeal to her; for all that she complained of the taste, Ozma could admit the variety and quantity of the food itself easily impressed. Meats of all types were the main course, along with varied fruits that would be considered delicacies in her homeland. Soups, beans, and breads were also common, with the latter the most varied. Hobyrim had been firm with her when he told her that she would come to the celebration; Ozma had been inclined to stay in her room until all of the guests retired for the night. Ozma did not quite understand Hobyrim's fascination with the young commander he recently spent much of his time with, but she supposed her lover empathized with the boy. At first, Ozma had wanted nothing more than to cause him as much pain as he had caused her, for he was such an ignorant, selfish child, but she could admit that Hobyrim's influence had been good for him. The boy, now more a young man, had calmed and was more aware of the world around him. Ozma still did not like Hobyrim's young friend, but she could respect that he was now a more capable leader than the whiny little creature he had once been. His swordplay had improved as well. Ozma often watched Hobyrim and Denam's sessions and could tell much of his skills were initially self-taught, but under Hobyrim's tutelage his swordplay had been refined, even if he was still not ready for open battle.

The Princess was another issue. Valeria would fall under that girl's leadership, there was no doubt. The girl thought with passion instead of rationality and, when she did use her mind, it was far too opinionated. She did not easily accept new ideas, nor did she know how to effectively silence her overbearing and stubborn nobles. For as much as Ozma was disgusted by Hobyrim's young friend, Ozma felt the country would be better under his rule. Perhaps it was her boredom, but said young Princess was her current source of amusement for the evening. The commander had come to the feast with the young Sibyl, the one in blue. _What was her name? _Ozma did not have a lot of contact with her. Olivya, yes, that was it. The woman was obviously enamored by Denam and refused to leave his side, even for a moment; Ozma thought it to be rather cute. Though she would never admit it aloud, Ozma knew she had once acted similarly with Hobyrim. Ozma could find not fault in her loyalty to the young man. The Commander seemed to have invited her as his companion for the evening, and the Princess, as far as Ozma could tell, was absolutely enraged about it.

She laughed lightly at the scene: the Commander and the Sibyl chatted quietly with the nobles and soldiers as an angry, flustered Princess looked on. Hobyrim touched Ozma's arm lightly in worry at the sound of her laughter, but she whispered a word to reassure him as she grasped his hand in response. The angry Princess reminded her very much of her brother's possessiveness over her when she had announced her engagement to Hobyrim. Oz had always been the odd sort; she had never felt the same attraction to him as he did to her. It was as if he had expected her to stay with him and only him. The thought of her brother no longer caused Ozma to reel in pain and hatred for the Valerians, but it still left a dull ache within her, one she never knew would be filled, even if she one day saved her country and started a family.

Denam and Olivya seemed entirely ignorant of the Princess' anger. Olivya was blinder than the Commander she pursued, as her eyes saw little else but the young man. It was as if nothing else existed; Ozma decided she liked the Sibyl, for she was reminded of a younger version of herself. It went beyond the obvious acts of assistance for their respective companions' blindness. From what Hobyrim had told her, and from what she had gleaned from Hobyrim and Denam's conversations, Olivya was as devoted to her country and family as Ozma was. It was all she had ever heard the younger woman speak of; whenever the Sibyl did not speak of the Commander she loved it was always of her family. Perhaps when the girl was older she would be more worthy of the position as lover to the man by her side.

Olivya kept her hand on Denam's arm, and helped guide Denam around the room. Every few moments he stopped and spoke to the various guests, which ranged from merchants, to soldiers, to nobles. At every move, Catiua kept her eyes on the man at Olivya's side. Ozma was surprised when she saw the young woman's boldness; Catiua soon started to follow the duo, not closely, but enough that Denam would never leave her field of vision. The Princess was dressed finely, but did not seem to care, as she walked almost as if she looked and dressed no differently than the field. Had her parents not taught her to act as a proper woman? Ozma, perhaps, was not the best to judge her for that as she, too, was more masculine than necessary, but at least when times called for it, she could be as much a woman as any other of the frail creatures who stayed safe in their homes and had no self-reliance.

Catiua honed in on Olivya and Denam like a hawk to its rodent. Hobyrim seemed to sense Ozma's amused anticipation and he turned toward her. They still held hands, but that he turned to her meant he demanded her full attention. When he was more passive, he would only speak in whichever direction he currently faced. "Ozma, what is going on? I can almost sense your plot." Ozma smiled, though she knew her companion could not see it. She gently caressed the top of his worn hand with her finger. His breath was light on her face; she turned towards him and gave him a light kiss on his lips. Hobyrim withdrew, mostly out of shock at her quick touch, but blushed lightly afterwards at her display. Ozma thought him adorable.

"Your young Commander is quite popular with women." Ozma leaned closer to Hobyrim so that their shoulders touched.

"Is he?" Hobyrim seemed genuinely curious. Hobyrim, too, had been quite popular when he was younger, before he left Lodis. While much of it had to do with his rank and family, he was also skilled and attractive and his demeanor - kind, firm, loyal - only increased the women's interest in him. He was a good man, the best perhaps, and Ozma was honored to have him by her side. Like Denam, Hobyrim had not noticed the women who fawned over him.

"The Princess desires him, but the Sibyl holds his heart." Ozma elaborated as she took a sip of the wine. It was not particularly good, but it was not the worst she had tasted, either. She found the entire scenario pathetic, like a badly written comedy play, and felt she needed to do something about it.

"Ozma" Hobyrim's tone was firm; she was amazed at how well he could read her intentions from such a few simple words. "Leave them to sort out their own problems."

"I've no intention of interfering, I simply wish to assist the young woman obtain that which she desires." Hobyrim ran the hand that was not held by hers over his face and through his hair in exasperation. She knew what it was he thought about; he always scolded her about her bad habit of interference in others' business. It was an old habit of hers, one promoted by her mother, who managed their family's guild. One does not get far in Lodis as a noble if one keeps to himself; Ozma's habits were not so easy to do away with, not that had any particular inclination to do so in the first place. Ozma released Hobyrim's hand and put her glass down onto the table. Hobyrim sighed in annoyance but said nothing; his sigh said more than any words could. She kissed him, more slowly, on the cheek as she stood to go speak with the Princess. Hobyrim remained silent and lowered his head into his hands, as if it pained him to even think on what Ozma planned.

Oz had often told Ozma that for all she pretended, she could not deny her baser desires. For all Ozma was disgusted by many of her brother's fetishes, in the end he remained correct - but perhaps not in the way he intended to be. Ozma's innate desire to meddle in the affairs of others could be attributed not only to her wish to be in control of the situation at all times, but it provoked a baser motherly instinct. Her mother had been fiercely dominant, often considered an odd trait in Lodissian society. She felt it her job, no - her duty, to take care of the young duo who were so obviously in love. Ozma would have none of the Princess' interference in Denam's and Olivya's relationship - not because she cared for either of the two particularly, but because the younger girl was so selfish that she would tear apart the happy pair apart for her own roughly pushed her way through the crowd and ignored the looks she received. More than a few gave her a second glance as they recognized her, but she ignored them. Her footsteps were light from extended practice in stealth and the Princess paid little attention to any but the young Commander, so it was easy to sneak up on her. Ozma walked up slowly behind her and whispered:

"Princess." The young woman jumped and gasped. She almost spilled her wine on her dress, but saved herself on time as she forced the goblet away from her; instead it only overflowed lightly onto her hand.

"Dame Ozma." The younger woman's voice was light and pleasant, but Ozma could tell she was annoyed. Her body was tense and her eyes continued to glance rapidly over to Denam and back. Ozma was not the type to mince words, so she did not bother with further formalities.

"You seek the companionship of the Commander." The girl's face went through a variety of emotions, from shock, to anger, to confusion, until she settled on caution. Her brow folded together in a frown and the young woman chose her response carefully.

"You make baseless assumptions, Dame."

"Let's not play games, Your Highness. I've watched you for the last hour and you look at nothing but that man." The girl blushed as she realized that others had seen her actions. Ozma thought her entirely foolish; did she truly think people did not watch her? She was ranked nobility, and her interest in a man would spark not only rumors but threats toward the one she desired. Catiua did not seem to realize she could not only harm the Commander's reputation, but some of the more determined nobles might even attempt to end his life by use of assassins. "I simply wish to give you advice." Ozma forced her words to be kind and gentle, even empathetic, but she felt quite the opposite. The sooner the girl got over her attraction, the better. She only made things more difficult for everyone.

The Princess hesitated. She looked Ozma up and down, but Ozma kept her features as warm as she could. Years of political games had rendered her a fairly capable liar, but she often did not care enough to play them. Ozma's facade seemed to satisfy the younger woman and the Princess finally relented as she acknowledged she knew she could no longer hide it. "Speak your piece."

"You must move quickly. If you procrastinate, the Sibyl's hold over his heart will only grow." Ozma felt a small tinge of remorse as she set the young woman up for failure, but the Princess needed to focus less on her "brother" and more on her duty. She would have a country to run soon enough and the Resistance's Commander was already quite happy with his current partner. "When he speaks with a noble, you must confront him - it must be publicly. The Commander respects his position, as well as yours, too much for him to dishonor you with a denial."

The young Valerian thought on Ozma's words for a moment. Her frown deepened but she finally nodded as she understood. "Yes, yes you're right. I cannot sit here and wait for him to come to me, I must build the future with my own hands." She gave Ozma a smile, Ozma returned it half-heartedly. If anything good came out of this situation, at least the girl would learn to act more confidently, as a Queen should. "Thank you, Dame Ozma." Catiua walked off with an energetic gait and, as she did so, put her goblet onto a random table. Ozma shook her head at the younger woman's rude manners but said nothing. Ozma quietly followed and kept her distance; she wished to see the results of her words. The Lodissian feigned lack of interest as she walked over to the buffet table and picked up two plates, one for Hobyrim and one for herself. She stayed close enough to hear what Catiua said, but far enough away that she did not look suspicious. Ozma picked at the food as she chose Hobyrim's favorite fruits and meats. It was not long before Catiua began her foolish attempt at courtship. Ozma smiled to herself and did her best to prevent a quiet giggle.

"Denam!" Catiua called to her brother loudly enough that the guests within the immediate radius turned toward her. Most went back to their business immediately after but Ozma could tell the noble that held Denam's current attention was annoyed at the interruption.

"Sister? Is something amiss?" Ozma had to listen closely to hear the commander's reply. Like Hobyrim, Denam was soft-spoken in day-to-day conversation and did not like to draw attention to himself. In some ways, it had the opposite effect, as it added an air of mystery to him. Catiua finally stood in front of her target and had a bright, predatory smile on her features. The Princess was in a world of her own and completely ignored the curious look the Sibyl gave her as well as the angry glare of the noble.

"Brother-No. Denam. I . ." _'Brother?' _The girl's imprudent words were enough to alienate her desired male more than any declaration of lust. With some satisfaction, Ozma immediately noted that Catiua had the attention of most of the guests who stood near her; a bit of humiliation would do the arrogant girl some good. The Princess glared at the Sibyl, who did not seem to understand what she had done to gain the distaste of the other woman. Denam did not see the wordless attack and silent conversation between the two and Ozma knew it was for the better - for as much as she disliked the pitiful man, she did not wish pain upon him any longer. If he knew of the Princess' actions, he would only be hurt more. Even Ozma was surprised at the Princess' next blunt words. "There is no one who I would prefer to have ay my side for the rest of my life than you."

Denam took a step back in shock and stumbled lightly into Olivya. One of the nobles nearby dropped their glass of wine onto the floor. Ozma blinked and realized even she stared at the odd trio. Denam's eyes, or more accurately, eye, opened for a moment before he pushed them closed again as he regained some self-control. He had not expected such words from the woman he considered his sister. Ozma knew the feeling; her brother had continually made crude sexual remarks in her direction. "S-Sister." The commander gasped out. Ozma could almost see the cogs of his mind work and she smiled lightly at his reaction. The true show was about to begin. "Of course, I wish to stay by your side."

Ozma was impressed at the young man's subtlety, Catiua - not so much. Ozma, too, would have been annoyed at the evasive answer had it been targeted at her, but as she watched the drama unfold, it only served to amuse her further. A quickly glance at the Sibyl beside Denam showed shock and a surprisingly possessive grasp at the commander's arm. "Call me by my name, Denam." Catiua took a step closer to the man. Almost the entire room stared and the Commander visibly gulped at his sister's close proximity. "There is no formality between lovers."

Whispers started almost immediately. Ozma could not make them all out, but she did not need to hear them to know what they said; rumors were the same, no matter the country. "Sister." Denam's voice was low and firm, a tone the Lodissian had not heard from him before; it seemed he had some leadership qualities beyond the charisma of youth after all. "This is not a discussion we will have in a room filled with people. . ."

Ozma was a bit let down at the response and quickly turned her attention away from the trio. She paid little attention to their words as she picked through the rest of the buffet table with efficiency instead of her early exaggerated slowness. She had underestimated the young male's maturity and his ability to control the situation. Ozma was impressed, but a bit disappointed, that Catiua had not been put in her place in front of the crowd. The Lodissian heard the young woman's voice rise in the distance as she spoke to the Commander, but purposely ignored the words as she returned to Hobyrim with her now-filled plates. The murmurs filled the room now and many flooded over to hear the argument between siblings.

It was not until later that she learned, in some ways, her plan backfired. On a positive note, the Commander was the object of much envy and also ended up more deeply respected for his mature dismissal of the young woman by any who were knowledgeable enough about courtship to realize how difficult it was. Unfortunately, the Princess' rejection only caused more men to attempt to court her; Catiua told off every single one. Her humiliation did not seem to deter her in the least; Catiua endured and, perhaps, even became more stubborn and determined to win the heart of the man she lusted for.

The Valerians were an odd people.

* * *

><p>Catiua had never been one to gawk at men. When she was younger, many of her female friends would stop to gossip and watch what they felt to be attractive potential partners, but. Catiua had never understood the appeal. It was so childish to giggle and whisper about what they could not have, but as she watched Denam move and block, sweat over his arms as his shirt clung to his chest, she began to understand exactly what the younger women saw. Denam had constantly sparred with Vyce when they were younger, but she had not taken notice to just how different he looked when he did so.<p>

Catiua did not know when her attraction started. It had not been immediate, if anything, it felt abrupt and if she had fallen for Denam all at once some time after she rejoined the Resistance. If she had to venture a guess, it would be when she saw Denam at his work. He was an efficient Commander and it was more than luck that allowed him to come as far as he had. No longer did Denam look to Catiua for approval as he did when he was younger. He was confident and independent and did not mince his words. It had been a shock; the Denam she knew had always done his best to be kind to others, yet there were times the Denam he had grown into did not say what he felt was right, but what was necessary.

Her attraction to Denam had made her look the fool on many occasions. During one strategy meeting she had been so entranced with the way Denam spoke that she had completely neglected to realize it was not only her time to give a motivational speech, but also forgot the words entirely. One particularly bad encounter had been after she had a few drinks in a feast celebrated in honor of her "safe return" from Barnicia. The former Dark Knight Ozma had uncharacteristically approached her with what had been sound advice, but Catiua had taken it a step too far. In her overconfidence, she had humiliated not only herself, but the man she pursued. Denam had eventually pulled her into a side room where Catiua realized the extent of their broken relationship. Denam forgave her and accepted her for her actions, but he did not trust her with his heart in an intimate relationship, as she continued to act in fickle and selfish ways. Catiua had been stunned at his reprimand, but had taken Denam's words seriously. She needed to earn Denam's love, it would not be handed to her. There was, of course, one very large problem.

Olivya Phoraena sat to Catiua's left. The Sibyl had a light smile on her face as she watched Denam. Unlike Catiua, her eyes did not roam over Denam's body, but they kept on his form and the clash of blades. Every time Denam was hit lightly with Hobyrim's, Denam's spar partner, blade, she would wince and channel her power as if she wished to heal him. Even when Denam worked, Olivya spent what seemed to be every minute by Denam's side and she refused to allow Catiua a moment alone with the commander. Olivya would guide Denam about and tell him of his the area that surrounded him; Catiua thought her actions almost an insult to the man, for her chosen Commander was not so childish to need a guide, even blinded.

Ozma Moh Glacius sat at Catiua's right. It was Ozma who had invited Catiua and, to Catiua's chagrin, Olivya to the field with her; apparently, in Lodis it was quite common for women to watch men spar. It was well known throughout the higher ranked in the Resistance that Hobyrim and Denam sparred often, and Catiua could see the difference in his skill. When Denam had taken Barnicia, he had been worried and cautious and kept to his spells over his blade, but now, as Catiua watched him on the practice field of Heim, she could tell he was more skilled than she had given him credit for. Hobyrim still had a clear advantage from experience, but Denam defended himself readily and even took to the offensive at times. One of the even bigger surprises was the presence of the female Dark Knight in the Resistance, which was something she had only learned of once she saw the woman back when the base had been Phidoch castle. Catiua had only seen the red-head a few times when she had been at Tartaros' side and had paid little attention to her, for the Princess' mind had been closed off in her own problems. At the time, the Lodissian woman had a lost, broken look to her and, when confronted about it, simply snapped that Catiua should mind her own business. After Catiua had asked around the Resistance about Denam's newest. . .friend?, she had learned that Ozma's presence was not openly spoken of, as the woman had a terrifying temper with all except those she deemed acceptable. It had not been until Ozma invited her out that she realized that Hobyrim was Ozma's lover, or at least companion.

As attractive and competent as Denam was, Catiua could easily admit that Hobyrim was a brilliant swordsman. It was an unfair battle, less of a spar and more of a lesson; Hobyrim and Denam spoke quietly together often and Hobyrim gave him quiet advice that Catiua could not quite hear. Catiua's own skill with a blade was not horrible, but it shamed her that likely both blind men could defeat her in a battle without the use of magic. Ozma elaborated to Catiua and Olivya often what the two did and about the specific styles they practiced.

"The Commander is much improved." Ozma snacked on what seemed to be a small dried fruit she had brought with her. The Lodissian did not take her eyes off of the men, but she seemed bored.

Olivya replied quite passionately. Her voice was light and pleasant in her accession. "Yes. If I did not know better I would not have recognized him from the broken man he was when we met again in Brigantys." Catiua felt a rush of emotion that ranged from both anger to sadness. Denam had grown up and matured and she had not been there to see it, but _that _woman had.

"'Met again?'" Ozma turned her attention away from the men to question Olivya.

"Oh, yes! Denam once lived in Heim and was my companion when we were children. Don't you remember, Catiua?"

Catiua knew her face was red from anger at Olivya's words. She _did _remember and she had done her best to make Denam forget. Even back when they had been children, Olivya held all of Denam's attention. They had played often together, along with the other sisters, particularly Cistina. Denam had been a quiet little boy, but playful and active when beside Olivya. Cerya, who now stood as one of Denam's captains, had acted as their guardian, even though she had not been old herself, and on multiple occasions had saved the duo from trouble. Catiua remembered one time quite vividly, for Denam had been terrified by it. The only reason Catiua cared to remember the horrible event was because Denam had been terrified of water for years and would scream whenever Prancet put him into the bath. Catiua did her best to make Denam forget the time and eventually his memory had clouded over; he saw Catiua as the one who saved him, not the elder Cerya; it seemed now that Olivya was back in his life, the small memories she had done her best to keep hidden had returned. Though both had been very young, they had still been old enough to remember some of their life in Heim.

Ozma and Olivya glanced expectantly at Catiua and awaited an answer. The Lodissian hid her emotions well, but Catiua saw a brief flash of. . .something, self-satisfaction perhaps?, that set Catiua on edge. Catiua tried to hold back her annoyance, but failed, as they were tinged with spite. "Yes. As I remember it, you almost got him killed. He refused to go near water for ages!"

Olivya's smile fell and she turned away. Catiua's own smile returned at the other woman's distress. Olivya almost looked ready to cry; what a weak child, not worthy of Denam! Ozma continued to glance at the two as the silence only became more tense and awkward. The elder woman seemed to be in thought; it was a few moments before she replied. "You manipulated his memories." Ozma's tone was accusatory. Catiua wanted to deny it, but to some extent it was the truth.

"He was upset, traumatized. For him to grow up a normal child, it had to be done." Catiua defended herself. She glared at the elder woman, who stared back at her darkly. Ozma had never given her such a look before and Catiua squirmed under her scrutiny.

"Are you sure it was for him? Perhaps you did it for yourself." Ozma turned away after the cool words to stare at the men, who Catiua noticed had finished. They seemed to have a quiet discussion in the field and as they walked over to the two women. Catiua bit out as quietly as she could:

"Do not be so presumptuous, Lodissian!" Ozma laughed cruelly at the response.

"What's going on here?" Denam's annoyed voice signified he had heard Catiua's words. Ozma stood and walked over to Hobyrim, who sweated almost as heavily as Denam, but did not look nearly as worn or tired as the younger man. Ozma offered Hobyrim one of her small sweets as she placed her hand in his; he gave her a warm smile in return and she put the dried fruit in his mouth gently. The Lodissian woman seemed to be in her own world.

"Ah, Denam!" Olivya's sad look was gone in an instant as she got up from the small bench and rushed over to said male in unconscious mimicry of the former Dark Knight. She ran her hands over Denam's arms, chest, and legs with a forwardness that surprised Catiua; even Ozma stopped to watch with a raised eyebrow. Denam thanked her and offhandedly ran a hand through Olivya's hair in embarrassment at the intimate touches, which caused the Sibyl to blush and stop her ministration temporarily. Denam chuckled softly at Olivya's response but said nothing. After a moment she continued without a word. After Olivya finished with Denam's lighter bruises she took a step away and looked to the Lodissian. "Um, Sir Hobyrim." For all of her confidence was Denam, Olivya seemed quite shy as she approached Hobyrim. "If you'd like, I can heal any bruises." Hobyrim nodded and thanked the young Sibyl in response and she moved shyly over. Ozma smiled and stood aside as the more skilled healer did her duty. Catiua felt even more foolish as she watched the group almost dumbly; she felt as if she should have remembered to heal him with her magic. Instead, Olivya had taken the advantage and had offered her services without hesitation.

It was Catiua's turn to take the initiative. Since neither Ozma nor Olivya seemed to want to answer Denam's question, Catiua attempted to turn this "battle" in her favor. "Denam, we were just talking about how we lived here in Heim when we were young. You remember, don't you? Cistina and Olivya once took you out into the fields to play without any guardians; you came back six hours later with hives all over your body! Your fever did not break for three days."

Olivya withdrew her hands from Hobyrim in shock before she turned back. She seemed upset again, and Denam realized it, even unable to see the reaction. Catiua was both amazed and annoyed at how easily the Commander could read the Sibyl. Denam grasped lightly towards Olivya until he found her arm, and ran his fingers up until he reached her face, where he stroked her cheek in reassurance. With his other hand he played at the ends of her hair. Catiua seethed; the reaction was exactly opposite of what she intended! Denam laughed after a moment before he replied, his hand still between strands of Olivya's hair and on her neck in a light massage.

"Yes, I remember. Children will be children, how was I supposed to know otherwise?"

"Indeed." Ozma interrupted before Catiua could reply. "Your Highness, is it not time for us to take our leave?" Her tone was forceful; Catiua ignored the blatant hint and turned away as a sign that she had no intention to heed her. Catiua kept her eyes on Denam's fingers; he seemed to have a fascination with Olivya's hair. . .An idea came to mind, a horrible one that Catiua knew she should not act on, but very much wanted to. Desperate times call for desperate measures; Olivya had attempted to take Denam from her for long enough. Plans already passed through Catiua's head; she would wait for Olivya to sleep before she snuck into her room at night. She needed to avoid any suspicion, so she might need to lay blame upon someone else.

"Are you all right, Catiua?" Olivya's words were worried as she looked at Catiua. Her hand remained on Denam's arm, and Catiua did her best not to glare at it. She forced her gaze up to Olivya's and pasted a false smile on her lips.

"Forgive me, I was lost in my thoughts." She sighed lightly, in attempt to sound as if she reminisced.

"We're returning now to wash before supper." Denam spoke in Olivya's place. He seemed worried about Catiua's odd behavior, so Catiua took a step forward and gently patted his shoulder in order to reassure him. She was not forceful, like Olivya, but she knew that without him able to see her smile it was the best she could do to show she was fine. As she examined Denam's face, she again put her hand onto her black brooch. She did not regret her removal of Denam's eyes, it had only made him more attractive.

"I will follow soon. I am simply caught up in my memories and would like to stay behind for a time." The lies flowed so easily. She hated the idea of deception, especially to Denam, but Olivya aggravated her and needed to be dealt with harshly. Denam smiled lightly in her direction and began the trek back into the Castle. Ozma and Hobyrim remained with Catiua; the latter seemed a bit confused by the entire situation, but the former was entirely displeased. Ozma gave her an unreadable look.

"I don't know what you plan, _your highness_" her intonation implied she did not believe Catiua was worthy of the title. Catiua was surprised at Ozma's outright hostility, for she had been only kind and respectful before "but leave them be." So Ozma would betray her, too? _Unsurprising._ The woman was formerly of Loslorien, after all. She had easily given up her old loyalties and she would likely do the same to her new ones. Catiua reminded herself not to let her guard down around the elder woman. Catiua turned quickly and did not deign to reply or bid the duo of Lodissians farewell; her mind was already on Olivya.

Perhaps she could kill two gremlins with one arrow? Catiua could remove Olivya's hair and blame it on Ozma, but how to go about it? It came to her almost immediately, she was surprised at how obvious it was: Ozma's dagger. Ozma had an enchanted dagger that radiated the power of ice magic. Catiua had only seen it once, for Ozma preferred her whip, but it was a fine weapon of a quality that very few in the Resistance owned. If she allowed the blade to cut lightly into Olivya's pillow, a part of the enchantment would likely remain as "evidence" of the Lodissian's misdeeds. Catiua almost giggled in delight as she began to walk more quickly in excitement. Catiua needed to find a way to get Ozma and Hobyrim to sup in the dining hall so Catiua had a chance to borrow the weapon for her own use. She would return it at a later time, of course, preferably while Ozma slept so the elder would be none the wiser.

Plans in place, or at least some of them, Catiua rushed back to the castle with a startling lack of femininity. It did not take her long to find a servant to whom she conveyed her invitation for Hobyrim and Ozma to. She had given them an hour before they were to come - and they _would _come, it would be dishonorable to decline. Catiua would just have to appear a bit late for their supper. The Princess quickly made her way back to her room. The halls were busy and many of the Bakram and Resistance members offered Catiua a smile or even a bow, but she ignored them all. Her room was at the far end of the Castle; it had previously been where Brantyn kept his quarters. Denam had an odd reaction when he had come to visit her in them one evening when she told him that the room had been used by the former regent; his face had paled and he immediately froze. It was not until later that he had quietly admitted the truth to Catiua. It had been an odd night, one where she realized just how much Denam had gone through without her, and how painful his journey into manhood had been. She did not care whether or not he was Bakram - she was too, she did not care that they had been raised as siblings, she did not care that Denam could not see; Catiua wanted him anyway. He had grown into everything that Catiua had long dreamed of; he was, in many ways, a fantasy prince that every princess deserved. Catiua would not allow him to be with anyone else, especially a particularly clingy Sibyl who could barely lift a blade to defend herself.

The guards by her door bowed and, unlike the servants from earlier, Catiua acknowledged them with a nod. Their presence had been Denam's idea; he had worried of assassins. Catiua thought Denam was paranoid, for none had approached her, but then she learned that there had been multiple attempts on Denam's life once he had become the leader of the Resistance and word had spread that said leader was blind and "helpless." So Catiua had agreed, but only under the agreement that he, too have guards for his chamber. She remained firm about it until Denam had relented, if only for the greater good. Catiua's room was warm and she slid her boots off as she entered; unlike many of the smaller rooms, the large bedroom that long belonged to the rulers of Heim had large windows that allowed sunlight to filter through. On a warm day, her room would heat up much more quickly than the rooms with smaller windows. It also allowed for cool air to more easily penetrate when it rained. Catiua was of firm belief that whoever had designed the room had been remarkably short-sighted or had neglected to think about the weather. She would have much rather had a more closed off room, even if the larger windows were usually used as a sign of rank.

Catiua's large common room had a table that could fit six with ease and a large fireplace on the wall. Along the wall that ran parallel to the fireplace was an extended couch that had recently been imported. The common room split into two smaller chambers, one for Catiua and another for whomever she chose as her partner in the future; without a doubt the second room would belong to Denam. Only Catiua's room was meant for sleep; the other room acted as extra storage for her future husband's clothing and weaponry. She had a large personal bathchamber off to the side of her bed chamber, as well as a smaller table for her meals, a vanity, and two bedtables, all made out of a dark wood with a clean finish. The servants had already laid out a dress for her dinner in the dining hall. She did not bother to call them to assist her with it and simply shed her more common clothes for the formal attire; Catiua did not like to accept help unless absolutely necessary. The dress was a pale blue that lacked buttons, so she was able to easily slide it over her head and shoulders, even if it mussed her hair. Catiua did not bother to change her socks, for they were not dirty, nor did they mismatch with her new dress; for all she embraced her new position as Princess, she was still a woman who had been raised to take care of herself and not be wasteful. She despised the petty women who put their form over functionality.

After she finished, she soon became bored. She still had about a half-hour until Hobyrim and Ozma were expected in the dining hall, and, until then, she needed some way to distract herself. She paced around her room and continually repeated her plans in her head. Ozma's dagger, Olivya as she rested, return dagger once Ozma is alone - asleep in her room. What if someone caught her? The excuse of a stroll was overused and not even her guards would believe it. A late night snack? Visiting Denam for strategy plans? Catiua continued to dismiss her ideas, they all sounded pathetic. She eventually settled on a partial truth: She planned to return an object of her friend's that had been left at the supper table. As Catiua's plans fell into place, she was relieved when the servant finally called her and told her that her guests would soon arrive in the hall. Catiua stopped her impatient pace and dismissed them immediately. She walked over to her vanity and picked up a brush that she ran through her hair quickly and did not bother to put on her headband.

Catiua moves as rapidly as she could through her common room, but her long dress limited her movement. To the dismay of Catiua's many servants, she kept all of her shoes, even the finer ones, on a small table by the door. The servants constantly scolded Catiua that such shoes were expensive and that they should be placed at least in a closet or chest, but she would hear none of it. Shoes were meant to be worn, not hidden away to be used whenever she wanted to feel "pretty." Catiua picked out one of her more comfortable pairs of shoes that were impractical for anything but a short supper. They had a strong leather sole, but the top covered her feet with a silk that gave with each step. When she had lived in Golyat she would never had imagined she would ever wear, let alone own, such an extravagant pair of shoes, let alone multiple pairs.

The young Princess pushed her door open and, as she walked out and slightly down the hall, she made a great effort to appear shocked and surprised before she turned to her guards and asked where Dame Ozma's chamber was. She was, after all, going to meet the woman for supper and needed to be sure that everything was acceptable after an earlier "disagreement." The guards smiled at her and told her the directions; Catiua was amazed the Bakram guards knew off hand, but did not question it. It was their job to assist her, so they likely knew where everyone's chambers were. Destination firmly in mind, Catiua casually made her way through the halls. Many of the occupants who had walked the halls earlier had already proceeded to the dining hall. Even less than an hour after she came back into the castle the cool stone halls were quiet enough that she could hear her light, muffled footsteps against the stone floor.

Ozma's room was easy enough to find. There were no guards in the hall, for which she was thankful. Catiua lightly knocked on the door three times and each time she did so, she fidgeted uncomfortably. Earlier she had been so passionate, but once she had started the journey, she had began to doubt herself. "It is wrong to steal." Prancet's lessons came back to her. She pushed them away and, after a few moments with no answer she opened the large into what were the Lodissian woman's well-organized and tidy chambers. Catiua's heart beat frantically; she knew she should not do this. She was not the type of person who did not take responsibility for her actions, but the memory of Ozma's harsh words little more than an hour before came back to her and Catiua steeled herself. The Dark Knight cared little for her, why should Catiua show any respect? The thoughts did little to calm her, but Catiua forced the weakness and hesitation away. Her actions were necessary if she was to have Denam; she could not allow a little thing like "morals" get in her way.

Ozma had no items that were out of place. In many ways the former-Knight Commander was a very different woman from Catiua, who often just placed objects where she would easily be able to find them in the future. Compared to Denam, who was always well organized and neat, her room had been cluttered - even if she knew where all of her possessions were. Ozma had a weapon rack in her small guest room, but no weapons were on it. She saw the woman's familiar dark armor, but her whip or dagger were nowhere to be found on or near it. Catiua quietly walked into Ozma's private quarters, which were perhaps even more organized than her guest room. There was nothing at all atop her vanity or bed table and what few dresses she had, likely bought for her by Hobyrim, or possibly even Denam on the Resistance's budget, were hung in the corner. Catiua's eyes immediately fell upon the chest at the end of the bed; the weapon had to be in there. Where else would she keep it? It almost screamed to potential thieves "Something special is inside me!" Catiua rushed over to the heavy chest and kneeled by it. As expected, there was a myriad of contents inside. Catiua again paused and inhaled as she realized what the contents of the chest were; the small objects, weapons, and even some clothing had to have belonged to Ozma's brother, for they were nothing Ozma would own or wear. Oz and Catiua had never met; he had died soon after Denam rejoined Ronwey's Resistance. Catiua knew of his existence only from Denam and how he was punished for his accidental murder. As far as Catiua was aware, the male Lodissian's death was the reason Ozma had been incredibly distressed and lonely when Catiua had been with Loslorien. If the items in the chest were deceased Dark Knight's, Catiua did not know that she could go through them, even in her desperation and desire for vengeance. It felt wrong to do such to the dead, especially one who was cared for so dearly.

_No_. She must - for her future, for Denam, and for her country, she could not turn away. Catiua silently apologized to the dead man as she began to explore the contents of the chest. Many of the objects in the chest were normal, a sword belt, a pouch, an odd piece of jewelry that was perhaps Ozma's. Catiua ignored the rest until she found what she needed: a long dagger. She unwrapped the cloth quickly but was dismayed when she found it was not Ozma's ice blade, but an equally fine blade enchanted with fire. Catiua stared at it for a time in both frustration and remorse for her actions before she quietly rewrapped it and placed it back at the bottom of the chest where she had found it. He hands stung with imaginary pain as she released it, as it felt wrong to have touched such a precious thing. Catiua took a deep breath and did her best to organize everything like it had been before she dug through the chest. By the time she finished, Catiua's hands shook in sadness at her actions and she could even feel the beginnings of tears in her eyes, as she imagined herself if they were Denam's possessions. She would not want anyone to disturb his items, either. To do what was necessary hurt, but she was too far into her plan and could not stop. With the chest securely closed, Catiua stood and immediately looked around the room; there were no other obvious areas where a dagger could be hidden. It would not be in her vanity, or her wash room, so Catiua walked up to her bed and carefully slid her hands under the pillow, but to no avail. Her regret faded quickly, but the nervousness and guilt remained. Every time she heard a sound, Catiua jumped and glanced around the room, but each time she saw nothing.

In order to prevent further delay, Catiua opened the drawer in Ozma's first bedtable. The drawers were shallow enough that she did not have to dig through to see the contents. As with before, she found no dagger. She moved over to the second bed table and repeated the action, but still the dagger was nowhere to be found. Catiua released a loud breath of annoyance. Certainly Ozma wouldn't have brought the dagger with her to supper? Catiua looked over the room and mused; she was already very late and if she waited much longer for an appearance Ozma and Hobyrim would likely return to their rooms. She hadn't found the blade, but she knew she could wait no longer. Catiua looked around the room in one last sweep before she fled. She felt horrible for what she had done, even worse was that she had not obtained the dagger, which made her goal all the more difficult. None were in the hall as she exited and Catiua released a low breath of relief. She ran as quickly as she could until she reached the dining hall, out of breath. The servants immediately escorted her to her prepared table, where Hobyrim and Ozma awaited.

The dinner was incredibly uncomfortable. The female Dark Knight spent the entire time with a glare on her features and spoke little more than two words. Fortunately, Hobyrim felt the tension between them and lightly engaged in conversation on a mutual topic of interest: Denam. Catiua could speak for hours about Denam and Hobyrim took advantage of her passion in order to keep Ozma and Catiua's hostility towards each other at a minimum. Hobyrim seemed to think of Denam as a younger brother, or a son perhaps; Catiua was glad to have such a reliable man as her future husband's companion. With the subject of Denam the main course of discussion, the dreaded "O" subject never came up, much to Catiua's relief. Catiua made extra effort to thank both of them for their appearance before she almost fled the room when she finished her meal, with little more than a simple farewell. Ozma's glare, mixed with the memory of her actions, tore her apart. She did not know if she could face the woman again; for all she disliked Ozma, it had been wrong to attempt to place the blame on her, and even more so to go through her most private of items.

Catiua spent the rest of her evening in her bedroom. She quickly dismissed all servants other than to ask one where Olivya's chamber was. Catiua had declined to get dressed down and instead demanded to be left alone; she wanted no company for the evening. Catiua continually flipped her dagger she always carried over and over in her hand as she sat at the small table in her bedchamber. The dagger was not nearly as well-used as her blade and, when it came to combat, she had little skill with the weapon. The unenchanted dagger was meant more to assist her in day-to-day actions or if she ever got stuck in a dangerous predicament without her sword. The night seemed to pass slowly, as if time was stuck in tar. Olivya became more of an obsession as the night passed and Catiua hated it; every time she tried to think on a different subject, Olivya and Denam's faces came to mind. If Catiua was not such a controlled woman, she would have brought her blade over Olivya's neck rather than her hair, but she could not do that, at least not yet. As much as the Princess despised the Sibyl, Catiua could admit Olivya was a skilled healer and she, along with Oelias, kept the Resistance in top shape in battle. Catiua could not sleep, and she certainly could not risk a bath until she returned, so all Catiua had to do was sit and play with her dagger. She lacked any books, but did feel the need or desire to read. Denam took care of most of Catiua' formal paperwork, she could not work, either. The only thing Catiua could do to amuse herself was imagine Olivya's high pitched shriek when she woke up and realized her hair was gone.

It seemed to be forever before the sky turned black and the fires along Heim's outer walls dimmed to not awaken the castle's occupants as they slept. Catiua only need wait a bit longer. As the time approached, Catiua rose from the table and sheathed her dagger. She unintentionally kept her hand on the hilt in anticipation. Though most of her initial plans were gone with no little thanks to her lack of Ozma's dagger, she could still proceed with the removal itself. If she was caught, she would need to improvise a lie, but Catiua's mind was too caught up in the moment to do so. Her heart beat quickly and she could feel her adrenaline rush prematurely. Catiua blew out the candle on her table and rushed into her common and put her shoes on. As she did so, she opened the door and told her guards to summon servants for fresh bathwater. They looked at each other oddly, it was a bit late for a bath, but did not deny her. The door remained open and, when she finished with her shoes she told the guards with no little confidence that she was hungry and that she planned to get a snack from the kitchen. They nodded respectfully and did not question her, even if they did seem confused by her odd actions. Very few would be awake in the kitchens late in the evening and Catiua knew it; to make her lie more plausible she would need to go there after she finished.

Catiua walked casually through the halls until she was out of sight of the guards before she started to jog. Even as she held up her long dress it was difficult to move quickly, but there was no time to waste. Olivya's room was disturbingly close to Denam's; they were not in the same hall, fortunately, but it was close enough that Olivya could walk to and from Denam's room in little less than a minute. Perhaps Catiua would have to make some rearrangements. . .The Princess stood outside the other woman's door for a moment and listened for any sound. No light filtered through the bottom of the door, which meant her candles were out. Catiua heard no sound from inside, or from any of the other rooms in the hall. The loudest sound in her ears was that of her heartbeat and ragged, worried breath. She had been nervous when she had attempted to steal Ozma's dagger earlier in the day, but she was close to panic as she stood outside Olivya's door. She had never done anything like this. What would Denam think if he knew? He would be angry, Catiua knew without question, so she needed to make sure he never, ever found out. Her breaths were shaky as she slowly pushed the door open. She was relieved when it did not make a loud squeal to alert the inhabitant even more fortuitous was that Olivya was asleep, for in her bed chamber Catiua saw a form huddled under the thick comforter. Catiua's light shoes muffled her steps, but she walked slowly in caution nonetheless. Her breaths were shallow but frequent as her heart raced, they no longer shook from nervousness, as she was far beyond simple anxiety. Catiua could barely see more than a few steps ahead of her in the utter darkness, the only light came from the open window where the moon and the torches on the ramparts lit the night.

Olivya made Catiua's life alarmingly easy. She rested on her side, her hair behind her on the pillow. As Catiua stood above her, she had easy access to the long, tangled ends. She didn't need to cut it perfectly, or even bother with all of it. She just needed to cut about half of it short and ragged, so the entire length would need a trim. With her hair shortened, Denam would not be able to run his hands through it any longer. Catiua knew Denam had always found long hair attractive, so the shorter haired Olivya would appeal to him less, even if he could not see her face. It was better for Denam and Catiua continued to act only for him; Olivya was a homely thing and he deserved so much more. Catiua cautiously leaned over and grasped the end of Olivya's hair. She did her best not to tug too roughly as she flipped her dagger into her hand and ran it through the middle and up near her neck with little hesitation. The strands fell across Olivya's shoulders and pillow and Catiua felt a twisted smile cross her features. She continued with the "trim" until Olivya's hair was shorter in every place she could reach without disturbance. As she finished with her work, Catiua sheathed her blade and took a few quiet steps back. No longer did she feel any of the panic that had earlier gripped her, but only the cool satisfaction of a job well done. Olivya had not awakened, to her relief, and Catiua did not want her to after the events had proceeded so smoothly. Catiua slowly, and a bit more confidently, walked from the room, as if she had been invited. The Great Father smiled upon her this evening; no guards were in the halls and none ran into her. Even Philaha wished her to be with Denam. As to not arouse suspicion, Catiua made her way to the kitchens as she had told her guards she planned to, and ordered a small snack before she returned to her room to bathe and go to sleep.

The next morning, well into the day, Catiua finally entered the meeting room where Denam and his captains discussed a strategy to take the Hanging Gardens. To her horror, Denam sat beside Olivya, the latter who looked toward Denam with a warm smile on her face. Denam, too, was turned towards the Sibyl and ran a hand through her newly cut, short hair with a barely-hidden smile. Olivya blushed lightly and murmured something that Catiua could not quite hear. Denam only continued his light caress before he turned back to his captains, eyes closed, and spoke his worries, plans, and orders.

Catiua wanted to scream.

* * *

><p>"So you're leaving."<p>

"I must." Denam stood quietly in front of Catiua in her common room. He no longer dressed in his heavy armor, but even in informal clothes he still held an air of command. His hair was recently trimmed and he was clean shaven – this time without the little half-healed scars that signified his own mistakes; though he looked similarly to before the war, Catiua could never confuse him with who he used to be. The changes went beyond appearance and even after she had been with him for so long, Catiua still marveled at Denam's skill and confidence. Denam, of course, was humble and lightly tossed aside Catiua's continuous compliments; he did not believe himself to be special, but she knew otherwise. Never would there be a better man.

"But. . ." Catiua wished her "sad eyes" worked on Denam. When he had been younger, Catiua could guilt him into any action, but now that he could not see, he was not only immune to her "charms," but also scolded her for it. Catiua desperately needed to find a way to keep Denam in Valeria. It was as if the world mocked her; the weather was sunny and bright, the people celebrated their new-found unity, feats and banquets occurred in all of the large castles. In Heim, it had been impossible to sleep the night of Catiua's coronation, due to how many yelled in the streets in celebration. Every person she met had a warm smile on their face and words of congratulations and thanks to their new Queen. Catiua only felt as if her world was bleak and grey; without Denam, Valeria's freedom held no life for her.

"'Tis not as if I leave forever. Think of it as a visit to old friends." Denam lightly tried to reassure her, but he did a terrible job of it and it only made Catiua feel worse. Denam slowly approached Catiua, arms in front lightly to guide himself. As if he could feel her sadness, Denam grasped Catiua's arm when he finally found it and pulled her into a hug. Catiua buried her face in his chest and brought herself as close as possible; she wanted to remember everything about his embrace. Denam smelled like a mix of leather, from his new sword belt and soap from the wash, he was warm, if a bit damp from his bath. His hands were clumsy as he didn't know where to properly hold onto her that was both respectful and affectionate, but Catiua did not mind; Denam had never been the most elegant of men. After what was not nearly long enough, Denam released her and lightly pushed her away. She missed his presence immediately.

"Denam. . ." Was all Catiua could bring herself to say. She knew he would come back, but a day without Denam was like a week without food; she did not know how she would survive. Denam smiled lightly and grasped Catiua's hand for a moment before he turned away. The guards at the door stood at attention and Denam waved them down, the sound of their armor's clank revealed the motion to the former-Commander. He took a few steps and the guards respectfully opened the door for him. Denam still held the loyalty of the Resistance members, even if they had been officially disbanded.

"Be good, sist-" Denam spoke as he walked to the door, but was interrupted by last minute bout of desperation; Catiua rushed up behind Denam and encircled her arms around his waist. Denam stood stiffly in shock before he slowly relaxed.

"Please stay, Denam." Catiua wanted to cry. She had not felt so alone before, even when she felt Denam had left her and she went to Tartaros. "I need you." Denam released a sigh and lightly tugged at her hands. He held them between his as he turned back around.

"Sister, you musn't be so selfish. You are Queen, you've more important obligations to deal with than your elder brother. If I remain, I will only hurt your reputation; I am not popular. My methods ignored the will of the nobility and as such I became their enemy. I've explained this to you before." His voice had taken on the strong tone again, the one that Catiua enjoyed most. It reminded her that the Denam in front of her was no longer the little brother he used to be. Catiua sniffed and withdrew her hands. She did understand why Denam left and she did know her duty was to remain. After all Denam had fought for, if only for him, she needed to stay and be a good Queen. Catiua, too, desired a better country; she knew if she left Valeria in a burst of emotion she would regret it later.

Denam patted her arm lightly, or at least a part of her arm, as he missed slightly. Catiua didn't care about his clumsy motion, she understood the intent. The Bakram male took a few steps back and nodded before he turned back around before he walked towards the now-opened door. His stride was calm and alive, as if he did not feel the same sadness that threatened to overwhelm Catiua. She watched him with tears in her eyes as he walked through the empty hall that let to and from her room. Without a guide he was slow and cautious, his hands out in front of him. Catiua knew he had a guide that awaited him in the Great Hall; she had arranged for him, but to watch him move so slowly revealed, too, that he was not as strong as he pretended to be. Catiua turned away and walked back into her bedroom with a quiet sniff. She sat down at the end of her bed and wiped the tears from her eyes and held back small gasps of sadness. It was childish, but she wanted to simply sit in bed all day and cry.

Her sadness was interrupted not even five minutes later when her door was pushed open rudely, to the shock of her guards. "Denam! Denam!" Olivya Phoraena rushed in, breathless; if she was not so well known amongst the guards as Denam's companion - Catiua seethed at the thought - the guards would have killed her on the spot for the intrusion. Catiua got up and walked angrily over to the woman, almost ready to slap of her. Olivya didn't seem to notice Catiua's rage and put her hands on her thighs to lean over and rest to catch her breath. Her now-short hair, only slightly longer than chin-length, fell in front of her face as she gasped out: "Where's Denam?" Catiua continued to examine the Sibyl as she answered.

"He just left." Olivya no longer wore her dress that signified she was of the Order of Philaha. Her new gown was simple but elegant and showed much less of her body than her normal outfit did. She held in her arms a rather oversized bag, but Catiua was unable to determine the contents. "He leaves for Xenobia within the hour." Olivya gasped loudly at Catiua's words.

"No! I can't be late, not now!" Without even a word of thanks, Olivya rushed out of Catiua's room, much to her and her guards' confusion. The situation confused her greatly, but she pushed it away. There were more important things to her than the rambles of the youngest Phoraena sister.

* * *

><p>The first thing Catiua noticed was the ring - Olivya's ring, to be precise. Before she even looked to Denam, Catiua noted Olivya's nervousness as she fidgeted with the item. It was on her rightfully named left ring finger and was a fine object, expensive and fit for a noblewoman. Catiua's relief and happiness at Denam's returned burned away in an instant as she realized the implications of what the ring signified. She forcefully turned her gaze away from the abhorrent object and finally looked toward the man she had desperately missed for over a year. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed taller and broader, but she could also tell he hid worry behind a feigned smile. He had cut his hair when he was gone; Catiua was amazed at the effect. He did not look completely different, but for someone who did not know him as well as she, they would second guess who he was. Catiua corrected herself, none in Valeria other than Denam was a blind swordsman – the status gave him away. She had not thought much on it until recently, but other than Denam and the Lodissian Hobyrim, Catiua had never seen another who wielded a blade after the loss of their sight.<p>

Denam wore gloves, so Catiua was unable to tell if he, too, had a ring. She felt rage well within; that wench had stolen what was hers! Had she not learned her lesson when Catiua had cut her hair? Catiua did not let her anger show, instead she greeted the newly arrived duo with a warm smile and kind words in effort to distract both them and herself from her emotional outburst. She took Denam by the hand and led to the table in her common room. She did not give Olivya the chance to help him sit, as she slid the chair out from under the table with a light smirk of satisfaction. It was rude of her, but she left Olivya to stand by his side as she walked to the other side of the table, where she pulled a chair for herself sit on. Olivya seemed a bit uncomfortable by the entire scenario as she realized that Catiua did not want to welcome her as she did Denam. Olivya made a lightly annoyed huff and pulled out a chair to sit by the former-Commander in spite of Catiua's glare, but as she did so, she looked to her hands and played with the ends of her long-sleeved, pale blue dress in nervousness that showed she was not quite used to such defiant actions.

"Denam! Words cannot express the joy I feel at your safe return." The words were formal and, had they been directed to anyone but Denam, they would have been a lie. When spoken to the blind male, Catiua's formality was passionate and truthful; she had missed him desperately. Her eyes roamed over his face and body; to her chagrin, Denam's clothes were formal, but looked old and worn and Catiua believed she recognized them from when he had been commander under her. In contrast, Olivya's pale dress was obviously new and very elegant, as if whatever meager budget they had to live off of went to her selfish desire for clothes and a better lifestyle. If Catiua needed another reason to despise the other woman, she need not look further.

"I missed you as well. Not a day passed when I did not worry about my home." Catiua's heart floated at first at Denam's admission, but sank as he finished. She knew he did not intend to, but the cool way he had shrugged off Catiua's heartfelt welcome when he responded about his "home" rather than about "Catiua," or even "sister," hurt. Catiua knew she should be happy to have Denam back, but as she was, but she continually found herself more disappointed, angry, and upset. The time he had been gone had passed as if it was trapped in tar or a thick caramel and Catiua had counted the days until his return. In her dreams, the Queen had imagined that she would run into her Commander's arms and give him a hug, possibly a chaste kiss on the lips if she felt bold. Reality was not always so kind, for the moment he arrived in the castle Denam had uncomfortably, but sincerely, hugged her with a quiet lowered his already-quiet voice to a whisper and murmured into her ear that he was a mess and needed to wash himself before he made any appearance before a Queen.

Olivya, too, had surprised the Queen. The Phoraena sisters and Mrueva had not been particularly worried about her when Catiua had alerted them that the young healer had gone missing. Sherri and Mrueva had instead shared a secretive smile and Cerya made a nod of approval. Even Cistina, who was no older than Catiua, seemed to know where Olivya had went. At the time of Olivya's odd entrance where she had demanded to know Denam's location on the day he left, Catiua had thought nothing of her intrusion, but apparently Olivya had rushed to Denam's side and took the ship to Xenobia along with him. The very thought had her angry for almost a full week and all had stayed away from her until she had been pacified. When Denam had sent word by letter that both he _and _Olivya were well, Catiua's anger had come back in full.

After their return, one of the more drastic differences in Denam's request to the servants was that he and Olivya share a room. The bloody ring was the cause. The very thought of the object caused Catiua to glare in Olivya's direction once again. She had not realized how long she did so until Denam uncomfortably cleared his throat; he could not see the events that unfolded, but he could no doubt feel the tension in the air. Catiua blushed lightly at her foolishness before she turned her attention back to her former-commander. "I've already ordered a feast this evening. I hope our guest of honor" Catiua purposely refused to make the word plural as to encompass Olivya "will take not issue to making an appearance?"

Denam frowned lightly but nodded. As she noted earlier, he did seem to be weary, but as he sat, slumped uncharacteristically in the chair, Catiua realized just how exhausted he must be. She felt horrible that she had summoned him as soon as he had returned, but she had simply been so impatient. She wanted to run her hands all over his body and soothe his weariness with her magic and massages, even if only temporarily. She wondered if his shoulders and chest were as firm as they appeared under his formal, elegant, if old and worn, shirt. Catiua didn't realize she stared in fantasy until Denam repeatedly said her name.

"Catiua? Catiua? Are you well? Catiua? Is it really that shocking?"

Catiua blushed further until she saw Olivya's gaze on her. Normally Olivya was kind and ignored Catiua's provocation, but she looked at the Queen expectantly, as if she awaited the response as much as Denam did. "C-Can you repeat that?" Catiua stammered, embarrassed that she had gawked at Denam's body rather than listened to what he said. Apparently, Denam thought his words were a surprise to her; Catiua likely knew what he said. It all came down to the ring_ again_.

"I said," Denam's voice was only mildly annoyed, but more amused, his closed eyes looked pointedly in Catiua's general direction, but did not land on her. Catiua was glad he had misinterpreted her actions as shock rather than distraction. "Olivya is pregnant with my child."

"I'm hap-What?"_ That_ was not the news Catiua had expected. Denam had a warm smile on his tired features as he ran his left arm behind Olivya's back to pull her closer. Olivya too, smiled, and Catiua worked her mouth in attempt to find an appropriate response. She spoke the first thing that came to mind that was not anger or spite. "How far along are you?"

Olivya blushed at the question and her hand almost instinctively went to her stomach. Her dress was loose, but she did not seem to show much, so Catiua knew it she could not be anywhere near ready to give birth. "Oh. . .only about three Scales. We wanted our child to be born in Valeria." She said it shyly, but also with strength and pride; Catiua found she disliked the woman all the more because of it. The answer bought her the time she desperately needed to recover from her shock and embarrassment. If Olivya was with child, then Catiua's chances with Denam had drastically decreased. She needed to find a way to win Denam back and quickly, before Olivya's claws sunk deeper into his heart.

"Catiua" Denam interrupted. "I'm terribly sorry for cutting our meeting short, but we need our rest. I know we've much to talk about, but we've Scales to do so." Denam did not ask, despite his well mannered words. He stood and Olivya did the same. Catiua worked her mouth to deny them and demand they stay to answer her questions, but she just nodded absently. Catiua had said little more than a dozen words; it felt as if the entire meeting had only happened because the duo wanted to rub their happiness in her face. That had been their entire point of the visit to Catiua's chambers, that single phrase about pregnancy. Catiua felt a light burst of anger at Denam; he had not wanted to see her! Curse that Olivya - she controlled Denam's thoughts as well as emotions.

Catiua nodded "Yes. . .yes, that's fine." It was most certainly not fine! The conversation has barely started! Catiua breathed heavily in her anger, which earned her a confused tilt of the head from Denam, who was unable to judge her response by more than sound. Olivya did not let on she noticed Catiua's odd behavior at all; the Queen did not know if Olivya purposely ignored it or if she was entirely ignorant of her anger. Catiua remained in her chair and did not offer a farewell as Olivya and Denam showed themselves out. She kept her gaze firmly on the wood table, but saw very little other than a mass of brown finish. Tears blurred her vision, but they were of anger as well as sadness. Catiua gripped the sides of the table with her nails until her fingers turned white from the pressure. How would she win the heart of a man who was already taken?

She needed to find a way. Catiua slumped down and leaned her forehead on the table. She released her death grip on the edge and slammed her first into the top in anger. The sound was low enough to now alert her guards outside the room, but loud enough to be a bit of relief for Catiua's frayed nerves. She dug her short nails into the palm of her hand at the very thought of Olivya.

_She needed to find a way._

The thought rang through Catiua's mind for hours. It started off innocently enough until, after a time her mood darkened. Her desperation had dimmed, but her willingness to use extreme measures had become more prevalent. The answer soon became painfully obvious: She needed to remove the source. It was not Denam who left her, no. Denam had come back to her after he left; he had always been a source of support, even when Catiua had been irrational and caused him pain. She gently fingered the black brooch she never removed from her neck at the memory. Olivya manipulated Denam! Olivya did not like that Catiua had such a close connection to Denam and wanted the Queen out of the picture. Even worse, Olivya did not wish Denam to be Catiua's High Commander any longer. That selfish girl! Catiua stood at the revelation, as if her energy was renewed. She walked over to the door and called to her guards to have her tub filled before she returned to the table, her head held more confidently in self-assurance. With remarkable speed and efficiency, the servants soon began to rush to and fro as they filled her tub. A light smell of smoke filled the room when the servants started the magic-based fire under the tub in order to warm her water.

But how would it be done? Catiua was not a cruel woman by nature, but her rival brought out her worst traits. To Denam, Olivya was something of an arrow in the flesh of his leg. Denam could rip out the shaft, but the end would still be attached and possibly even cause more damage or dig deeper. To more appropriately remove an arrow, a healer needed to cut it out. It was the same with Olivya; Catiua could not force them to never see each other again, it would only hurt Denam more. Olivya needed to be removed entirely from Denam's body.

There was no doubt in her mind as she peeled off her dress and undergarments tossed them haphazardly onto her bed before she stepped into the bath:

Olivya Phoraena would die.  
>*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*<p>

"Y-y-y-your Majesty, are you sure of this?"

The young servant, a boy no older than fourteen, stuttered weakly before her. Catiua looked at him; he was slightly shorter than her, soon to grow taller, was dirty from his work in the kitchens.

"I am your Queen; do not question me." Catiua snapped quietly. To attract the attention of any nearby feast-goers would serve troublesome and would cause her to retract her plans entirely. "After you've finished, meet me on the balcony outside of the third meeting room. We will discuss your reward there." Outside of the view of many pairs of watchful eyes, Catiua internally added. The young boy licked his lips in anticipation and nodded his head with both caution and eagerness. A personal favor for the Queen, no matter what it was, would be rewarded splendidly and he knew it.

"I understand. It will be done, your Majesty." Catiua nodded and walked away. A few may have seen her speak with the young man, but none seemed to pay her any heed. If they did, who would suspect her? Or speak against her? None, surely. For a time, Catiua mingled with her guests. Though the feast had been an affair planned on short notice for Denam's return, it was still far more extravagant than the one Denam had held for her. Catiua understood the Resistance's limitations and held no grudge for it; she appreciated the thought and any gift from Denam was appreciated. Heim's nobility had all come and thanked her for the invitation; many of the young, unmarried men had made blatant attempts at her heart, but she denied them before more than a word of courtship left their lips. Her affection was for one man and one alone, the shallow nobility would never have more than a modicum of her love.

Catiua had spent the entire day perfecting her plan. She had gone into town without an escort and simply asked an alchemist for an effective poison - to remove the rats that plagued her garden, of course. Such vile things! The alchemist had helped without question, but had also sternly warned her that after she handled the poison she should wash her hands, as it was just as deadly to humans as it was to rodents. Catiua knew she could not kill her rival at once; the healers would be able to detect a larger dose of the poison within her. Even more importantly, Olivya's death so close to her return would be incredibly suspicious. It served Catiua better to make her death slow; the Sibyl would suffer for what she had done. Catiua would not only have Denam, but she would have her revenge. It was almost too perfect.

The feast was intended to be in Denam's honor, but very few other than old friends spoke with him. Catiua subtly watched him through the evening and saw how many nobles avoided him or purposely scorned him. There were many times that Catiua could tell, even from a distance, that he scolded them for their foolishness when he spoke with them. Denam would speak in an oddly respectful way, where his words were kind, but also demeaned those they were targeted at. Denam's tolerance for nobility seemed to have decreased, which made sense after his own experience with the less honorable Walister, Galgastani, Bakram, and even Lodissian nobles. Catiua knew Denam just wanted to be a normal, common man, but in many ways it was impossible. He was well known, but disliked by many. The former-commander was experienced but blind and who would hire a blind soldier? Denam was not the type of man who could simply wait around and let others solve the problems that plagued the country, either. No, Denam would never be a normal man. He was much too strong, much too diligent. He deserved so much more than anyone else but Catiua could give him.

Catiua had already started to make wedding plans in her head. She had started with her style of dress - as well as Denam's outfit, her guest list, what Scale she wished to be married in, and the theme of her wedding. Of course, it was far too early to plan it on parchment, but the more organized she was before the announcement, the less time it would take. Catiua continued in her own thoughts as she spoke, or rather- barely listened, to the nobles who wanted her attention or favors. Some asked for Goth, others asked for trade alliances, and even more requested Catiua use her influence to secure exclusive trade routes. She ignored them all, her mind elsewhere. Denam would scold her if he found out she acted so immaturely, for he firmly believed she should act more responsibly and like a proper Queen, she knew. The very thought of his name again brought a smile to her lips and she walked off; she cared little for the slack jawed man who continue to propose his arrogant ideas to her.

As soon as the feast began, Catiua had been sure both Denam and Olivya were served off their own plate, as was tradition for guests of honor and those of high rank. The large table was abuzz with words and rumors, mostly fueled by drunken soldiers and young nobles who did not know any better. After a quick, rather pointless speech that welcomed and thanked everyone for their arrival, Catiua loudly declared the feast to begin. As she did so, a familiar young servant boy came up and started to assist Olivya with her food. Catiua pointedly ignored her tool and turned her gaze to Denam, who had the attention of a few of the higher, but also very unmarried, female members of Heim's nobility. Denam made a point to expose his left hand, which shared a ring on the same finger Olivya's. Denam had not spoken to her since their rather brusque "meeting," if the few words earlier in the day could be called a conversation at all, so Catiua had not been positive the duo had truly wed. As Catiua watched Denam show the ring to get the obnoxious women from his side, it was quite obvious to her that if Denam and Olivya were not married, they soon would be. Catiua forced her rage down and glanced quickly at the Sibyl, who now thanked Catiua's tool for his service and began to eat her food. Catiua turned her attention back to her former-commander; Denam continued to ignore the noblewomen, for the most part, until they started to touch him. One was even bold enough to run a nail down Denam's face, along the scar that passed from his forehead to his cheek, which earned her a glare from both Olivya and Catiua at the same time. Denam simply turned his face away and continued to eat and ignore them.

As Olivya ate her lightly poisoned meal, Catiua did her best to appear friendly and make conversation with the woman. It was difficult to wear a calm facade, as Denam often did, but she avoided the necessity with constant questions. Apparently, Denam and Olivya had sent much of their time in travel. They'd seen old friends and met new ones; Catiua didn't particularly care about their travels, but feigned interest until Olivya told her of the more relevant subjects: She and Denam. Their wedding had been small and they'd only invited a few to come, apparently. Despite his rather ranked acquaintances, Denam held no position in Xenobia and his lack of sight made work difficult to find. Olivya had not wanted their marriage to be a grand affair, to Catiua's annoyance, so a smaller and, more importantly, cheaper wedding suited her tastes. It was difficult for Catiua to come to terms with, but while Denam was a hero in her and many other Valerians' eyes, in a large country, where Valeria was a tiny pointless island, he was little more than a common man.

The conversation at the table became louder and more passionate as the night went on and the wine warmed the bodies and minds of the drinkers. Olivya had fallen silent well over an hour before and she had begun to look a bit ill. Catiua made light noises of worry and told Olivya that perhaps it was time to rest, but the woman declared she was fine, it was likely just her pregnancy's effect on her body. Catiua nodded and pretended to agree with Olivya's synopsis and, after a time, finally excused herself because she quite desperately needed to relieve her bladder. A lie. Catiua walked in very much the opposite direction, towards the third meeting room, with a large balcony. The halls were empty and cool, all of the servants and castle occupants were at the feast. Catiua lightly leaned against a wall and ran a hand up her leg, to where she had her dagger hidden on a small belt. Catiua patted the sheathe lightly and lifted the dagger out, just to make sure she would not have any complications with the weapon; she hoped she would not need it, but if the servant was disagreeable, she might have to take drastic measures.

As promised, the young man waited on the balcony. It was almost entirely dark, with only fires in the distance to light the area. None would see them. Catiua pasted a warm smile on her face as she approached the young man and subtly channeled her magic. Catiua was just as skilled in Dark Magic as Light and, while she did not use it often, she had need for it on this night. The servant was likely untrained and he would feel little more than a light hum at her magic's presence. The servant bowed deeply and Catiua lightly touched his shoulder.

"There's no need for that. I thank you for what you've done. Have you any requests?" Catiua kept her tone light and kind.

"Ah-um. . .I-I" Catiua put a finger onto his lips to silence the shy, scared boy; she knew what he wanted: extra money, or perhaps even higher pay, possibly even rooms in the castle for his family. The latter would be doable, perhaps Catiua would even send some money to the boy's family in his place. He had done her a great service, even if it was only the start of her journey. She had no more need for him and, with her light touch on his lips, she cast a Paralysis spell. The boy was shocked; the spell was light enough that he could still feel, stand, and breathe, but heavy enough that he could not move at will.

"I'm sorry, but I can't have word of my actions spreading." Catiua used all of her weight to push the boy onto the railing. She was not strong, but the boy could not fight her. She gasped from the exertion and the boy's eyes held a panic and his breaths became more frequent. After a moment, Catiua realized her mistake; human bodies float in the water, even unable to move he could roll over and float to breathe. With the boy still pressed against the rail, Catiua forced her body into him and pulled out the dagger on her leg; she had not planned to use it, but understood its necessity. Caught up in the moment, Catiua drew the blade hard down his arm, in attempt to make his death look like a suicide. Blood immediately spurted across the balcony and Catiua recast her paralysis spell, with extra strength. The boy would die, there was no doubt; it was simply a question of from the blood loss or from the water. The teen understood his predicament and Catiua could see the realization in his mind. He had the beginnings of tears in his wide, innocent eyes, and, if he could move, he likely would have a shocked and angry expression. Catiua did her best to avoid the bloody arm as she continued to push him over the rail with her shoulders and arms. It took time and Catiua breathed hard from how heavy he was, but eventually she was able to get the majority of his weight halfway onto the thick rail. His weight transferred from her to the rail, Catiua rubbed her sore muscles. All it took was an extra push and she was easily able to get him to topple over, head-first, into the moat; after a moment she heard the boy's distant splash. Silence filled the night; her spell would not wear off until after well after he was dead.

The Queen caught her breath and shakily put her dagger away into its sheathe under her dress. She stood in silence and stared at the empty space where the young boy had been only moments before. Now that she had finished the brutal act, she could hardly believe what she had done. Her mouth was lightly opened in shock and her entire body convulsed in tremors of horror. She wobbled a bit and almost fell over. The blood had, fortuitously, not gotten onto her clothes, though it did entirely cover her right hand. She stared at the bloody hand in shock and horror. She had killed before, but usually out of self defense. Even Leonar, who she had murdered without thought, had not been so helpless or under the effect of a powerful paralysis spell. She felt like a monster. But Denam. . .Denam was worth it. Catiua clenched her bloody first in attempt to control herself with regained determination. This boy's death was only the first step. Catiua would need to poison Olivya from the next night onwards. She could not hesitate, she could not be this weak. For Denam, Catiua must be strong, just as Denam was strong her for.

But no confident words were able to soothe her. She understood the reason for it, but the action was almost unbearable. Catiua fled the balcony and rushed through the empty halls into her room and did not leave for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>"She's gone."<p>

"No. . ." Denam's whisper was barely audible in the dank, humid room. The poison had done its work and Catiua would have giggled in delight had she not made one foolish mistake: Denam's emotions. In her blind, stubborn pursuit of Denam she had forgotten that her goal was not to kill Olivya in cold-blood, but to bring Denam happiness. Denam was broken, distraught, and hadn't slept for days, weeks, even. He had refused to eat until Catiua and the healers had almost had to force the food down his throat. He hadn't bathed, or returned to his room since Olivya's turn for the worse.

Poisoning the young Phoraena had been remarkably easy. None had questioned Catiua when she asked, daily, to bring food for both Olivya and Denam. It had been a chance to see her "brother" and talk about the many things that had changed over the past year. Every day she would slip a bit of the poison into Olivya's food, just enough to not only keep her ill but only slightly worsen her illness. Olivya was a fine healer in her own right, but she quickly succumbed to the poison before she could determine what exactly the problem was. Catiua's own healers had looked at her, much to her worry that they would be able to detect the poison, but had found no evidence of foul play. They simply believed she suffered from some foreign disease and had locked her into a room, alone. After a time it had become painfully obvious the woman would not survive, but Denam had stubbornly refused to give in and continued to visit the woman every day.

The room was silent for a full minute before Denam spoke again, his voice high in pitch; he was panicked, upset, and looked ready to cry. "The child. What of the child? Surely you can save it!" Denam grasped towards healer in desperation; when he finally reached him, Denam clenched his hands over the man's wrist. He shook it, almost as if the violent motion would somehow make the healer tell him it was all a lie and that Olivya still lived.

The healer turned away. "Even if we were to remove your child from the womb now, it would be unable to survive outside the mother's body. I'm sorry." The healer's voice was sad, but also calm, as if he was used to panicked, irrational reactions. Catiua was impressed, the man had a difficult job but he handled it well. Denam, on the contrary, was more broken than she had ever seen him. He had opened his eyelids and stared into darkness in his shock. Catiua was a bit disturbed to see his blinded left eye, for Denam usually kept it closed; with its color off, it looked as dead as the woman on the bed. He released his death grasp on the healer and again turned his attention to Olivya's bed until he found her with his hands. He held the now-deceased woman's hand and lifted it to his mouth as he pressed his eyes shut once again, teeth clenched. Catiua wanted to cry; Denam was strong, he should never be in such a shattered state.

Catiua felt her first tinge of regret for her actions. She did not regret the death of Olivya Phoraena, rather, Denam's unborn child. The child, despite being the spawn of a foul witch, was still Denam's and she should not have killed it. Catiua had sworn to do what she must for Denam,'s betterment, but she had not expected Olivya to have manipulated him so thoroughly. Catiua would need to slowly help him recuperate, even if it meant to make him forget the past. Just as she had helped Denam forget the memory when he had almost drowned, she would have to do it again, with Olivya. She needed to make Denam feel happiness again; Catiua did not know how, or how long it would take, but she would never stop until Denam smiled and, eventually, loved her as much as he had once loved the Sibyl. But, unlike his false love for Olivya, Denam would truly love Catiua. It would not be an act, or a ploy, like with the other woman, who wanted no more than a trophy husband.

Catiua hadn't noticed it at first, but Olivya had a truly cruel plot. At first, Catiua had thought the girl lusted after Denam based off of a cliché fantasy about long-lost childhood friends who had always loved each other and would eventually marry. But it was not quite so simple. How odd and unnatural their relationship had been! Catiua had put the pieces together as she had poisoned Olivya; Denam had been weak after his father's death, vulnerable, upset, and Olivya had exploited his emotions. She used his blindness to force him into reliance. Catiua would not have been surprised if she had even resorted to a twisted sorcery to win his love, especially with the way he had so bluntly refused Catiua's emotions.

"I am going to return to my quarters." Denam finally replied. He very gently released Olivya's limp hand, as if it was the hardest thing he had ever done, and stood from the small stool he sat at by her bedside. Though his words held strength and Denam's face had turned into an impassive mask to hide his emotions, Catiua knew he suffered even more at present than he had at the moment of Olivya's death. The words had sunk in and Denam needed time to adjust and come to terms with his new future. Denam was unfamiliar with the infirmary and grasped his hands along the walls and objects in the room. He almost stumbled on multiple occasions, until he found the door. Catiua was unsure as to how he would reach his chambers in his state, but if Denam wanted to be alone, she would not disturb him. Unlike Olivya, Catiua knew Denam did not need help.

After an uncomfortably moment, the healer looked to Catiua and cleared his throat in order to get her attention. Catiua sighed and turned to him, she knew her sadness for Denam was etched on her face. She looked the man expectantly, a bit annoyed at the interruption. The Cleric seemed unsure as to how to approach the situation. "Your Majesty. . ." He paused. If Catiua were not so emotional, she would have tapped her fingers on the top of the table in annoyance. The healer's earlier confidence was gone and he now seemed very uncomfortable. "Please forgive my bluntness, but you must go with him."

Catiua frowned, somewhat offended. Denam did not need anyone to go with him, he was a grown man. "Why?" Catiua held back her anger as she spoke the single word; there was no point in anger until she heard his reasons. If Denam had taught her anything, it was tolerance.

"He is blind." Catiua almost rolled her eyes; 'twas obvious. "More importantly, he is distraught. He will not be thinking rationally. He will be unable to make it back to his room in his state." The healer's tone was cautious, as if he was not sure how Catiua would take his words. Had Catiua felt more alive, she might have gotten angry, but all she could muster was a light annoyance.

"Denam is capable of taking care of himself." Catiua knew Denam had always hated when she babied him.

"No doubt, but he is both prideful and blind; a bad combination. He will not ask others for help and, because of that, he will become lost without assistance. It is well known that the young woman," The man tilted his head towards Olivya's corpse "was his guide." Catiua wanted to yell at him that Olivya only guided him in order to control and manipulate Denam, but held her tongue. The Queen was sad and emotional; she did not hold any grudge against the healer and should not take her anger out on him. Though she did not entirely agree with his judgment, Catiua did understand his reasons, especially with Denam in such a state. Denam would likely collapse against a wall somewhere, curl into a ball, and possibly even fall into depression.

With a sigh, Catiua got up and nodded in compliance "I understand." was all she said as she, too, exited the infirmary without another word or glace at the dead woman on the bed. The search for Denam was over almost as quickly as it started. He was alarmingly easy to find, for he had barely made it past the first hallway to her left. When she found her former-commander, his hands were lightly pressed against the wall as he moved at an incredibly slow pace, as if he did not desire to walk. He did not seem to care the direction he walked, as long as it was away from Olivya. Catiua approached him quietly, but she knew he heard her.

"Denam. . ." It felt wrong to raise her voice higher than a whisper. Denam didn't turn or make any sign to show he heard her, he just kept his abnormal, sluggish pace down the hall. Catiua could barely stand to watch it and she rushed forward and took his hand. "Denam." she whispered more firmly. "Stop being a fool, you're only going to hurt yourself. Come, I will show you to your room."

To her surprise, Denam did not resist when she grasped at his sweaty, warm hand. It worried her; he did not show any emotion at all and seemed completely apathetic to the world around him, as if naught but he existed. His body sagged lightly and his arm was limp, his head was tilted downwards. Denam's normally confident stride was marred as he barely lifted his feet from the ground, each step a shuffle. The normally confident man was thoroughly and utterly pathetic. Catiua felt the urge to hug him and tell him that everything would be well, but she controlled herself and instead opted to simply squeeze his hand.

The day in the castle proceeded normally for all but she and Denam; few would care that a young woman had died, in fact, many would rejoice, as it left the former commander "free." Marriage to him would only increase a family's rank and status with the Queen, not that Catiua would allow it. Very few gave Catiua and Denam more than a glance; Catiua felt like she wanted to scream at them: "Denam is upset! You've no right to be happy while he suffers!" She resisted the urge, but at each smile she received she found it more difficult to return the motion and eventually her expression turned into a perpetual frown that turned most away the moment they saw her. Finally, in annoyance, Catiua snapped at one of the servants who greeted her as she walked past and demanded they prepare water for Denam's bath. She did not wish to say it aloud, but Denam desperately needed it. His hair was dirty and he smelled of natural odors as well as, Catiua hated to admit it, death. Denam again made no response, not even a grunt or sound he acknowledged, let alone heard, her. He walked as if it was the only thing left for him to do in the world.

Catiua did not know what she should feel, or how she should act. Denam's pain caused her to suffer almost as much as he, but at the back of her mind, she celebrated. It felt so wrong to be happy at the death of others, but Olivya's death would allow for a new future for Denam and she together. Denam would finally have the respect he long deserved and Catiua would finally be able to show him the love she had hidden away. Denam would rule the country by her side and go forever into legend, as he well deserved to, not fade into obscurity like any other man. Catiua could not bring herself to feel for the Phoraena girl she had killed, for the Sibyl was the one who had caused such pain to Catiua and Denam. For over a Scale Catiua had anticipated and planned Olivya's death, and, as she did so, she had planned for her future as well: marriage, children and their names, perhaps they would even build a small villa for vacations. All of her plans had come to fruition; Catiua knew she was blessed by Philaha once again.

Denam's room was deathly silent as she opened the door, but the light smell of smoke from the bedchamber said that his bathwater was already warmed. Their slow pace had given the servants time to prepare Denam's water properly. Denam followed the Queen into the open door quietly and removed his boots. After he did so, he simply stood for a moment and raised his head to the ceiling in a motion Catiua did not understand. Catiua released Denam's hand and wiped the sweat on her dress before she removed her own boots and placed them near Denam's, in the process she lightly pushed Olivya's smaller shoes out of the way to make room. Catiua took hold of Denam's arm, more firmly than she had his hand, and pulled him into his bedroom from his guest chamber. He stumbled after her with a light gasp that signified he paid no more attention to Catiua than he had the others in the hallway. Denam's bed was made from the servants, but he had no clothes prepared. The windows were open and a warm, light breeze filtered into the room. As Catiua looked around, she saw small signs of Olivya everywhere. A larger brush on the vanity, a necklace on one of the bedtables, some herbs and perfumes atop her dresser, all items Denam would not have used or owned himself. Catiua forcefully turned her gaze away from the items and continued to drag Denam into the warm bathroom, where the water lightly steamed. Denam finally seemed to liven up. Without a word, he removed his elbow from her hand and began to take off his trousers and shirt. Catiua lightly put her finger into the water to test its warmth; it was uncomfortably hot, but it would not kill Denam. The servants must have used a stronger fire spell than normal to heat it. Catiua carefully dispelled the fire under the tub with her magic; she was not well practiced in the arts of Fire, but she did know enough to easily start and dampen a fire, as did any who used magic-heated baths.

By the time she had finished with the water, Denam had tossed his clothes into a pile in the corner. Catiua's eyes wandered over his nude body; it had been so long since the last time she had seen him without clothes and, by Philaha, he had changed. He was not quite as muscular as he had been when he fought as commander, but he remained toned, not flimsy and weak like many of nobility. In some ways, his heavier build would render him unattractive in the court, since he lacked the clean, polished, delicate look of the young men who wore a sword only for show. Where Denam's body lacked scars, healing magic worked its miracles for that, he did still have one scar over his left eye from Catiua when she had "healed" him in Phidoch. She had prevented the eye, and the long slash through it, from a complete recovery at any point with her mixture of offensive and defensive magic. The wound had been deep and, even with advanced spells from the Resistance's healers, the scar remained, pink flesh lightly vertical through his eyebrow and down his cheek. Catiua's eyes searched downwards in the direction that she knew she should not look. It was so forbidden that she found the desire to gaze almost overwhelm her. Where the hair on Denam's upper body was a dusty blond and was barely visible on his arms, it darkened as her eyes reached. . .Catiua gasped as she realized what she did. Some secrets would best wait until she was married! But again her eyes roamed down his chest and abdomen until Denam cleared his throat in embarrassment as he, too, knew what Catiua did. Catiua did not think she had ever been more embarrassed; she was entirely grateful for Denam's blindness, if he had seen her face or worse, her reaction, she would have wanted to curl up in a corner and die. After a moment of uncomfortable silence between the two, Denam chose to ignore Catiua completely as he walked over to the tub, stepped up the small step-ladder and slid into the hot water. The water sloshed around him and he felt around to find the soap and wash, which were easily accessible just to his left on a small table. Rather than wash himself immediately, Catiua saw Denam lean down low into the water and relax a bit. She was not worried that he would hurt or kill himself, Denam was not that type of man even in desperation, so she quietly left Denam to his wash.

With Denam no longer at her side, Catiua found herself a bit curious about what was in his room. She knew it was inappropriate to do so, but she walked cautiously over to the first large dresser she saw, a tall thing, light in color and with no objects on the top, and opened the top drawer. Inside were a handful Denam's tops and nothing else of interest. She closed it quietly and moved down; in the second drawer a small pile of trousers, no more than three. Did he not have any more? It was not as if Catiua and Denam had grown up poor; Prancet had been easily able to supply for the children. So why did Denam keep so few clothes? Perhaps it was because Olivya and he had simply come back from their travels and he did not have time to shop? More likely, Catiua internally fumed, was that Denam simply had no interest. Olivya, foolish girl as she was, cared too much for her own clothes that she had not cared what Denam wore – the Queen remembered Denam and Olivya's contrast in appearance when they had first arrived, Olivya in her fine, elegant dress, and Denam in the fine, but old shirt and trousers, both of which had been almost too small for him. In annoyance, Catiua closed the drawer that held Denam's trousers and walked over to the second small dresser which she assumed was Olivya's. The Queen opened the doors outward almost violently. As expected, Olivya had at least twice the dresses that Denam did both shirts and trousers added together. Catiua frowned and felt her anger build anew over her sadness and empathy with Denam. Catiua would never be so selfish to care for herself above Denam! The Queen needed to obtain the male's measurements and order some new clothing for him.

With Olivya's dresser open, the strong scent of her herbs filled the room. Catiua was familiar with the individual herb smells, many were to ease pain or were sleep aids, but they all meshed together into a strong aroma that made her head spin. Catiua instinctively took a step back and turned her head away from the overwhelming smell and silently coughed. Her eyes opened widely and had begun to tear. Catiua took a few more steps back in defeat; she would look in Olivya's dresser later. Catiua quickly went back over to Denam's clothes and picked through them. She resisted the urge to smile as she recognized every single article he owned as ones he wore when leader of the Resistance, but also frowned that he had bought nothing new for himself. Catiua picked out a simple loose off-white top and brown trousers along with clean undergarments and socks. She closed the drawer behind her and placed the items on the bed before she walked out into the guest room. On the table was, expectedly, a pitcher of water. The fireplace was unneeded in the warmer months and Catiua could see it had not been used in some time. Olivya's wooden staff leaned against the wall in the corner of the room, near where the large figure that held armor stood. There was not much else of note, since soon after Olivya and Denam had arrived, Olivya had gotten "sick" and had not had time to make the chamber more than a simple guest room.

It occurred to her then that Denam likely had not eaten in some time. Catiua quietly walked over to the door and looked out. No servant was in the hall so she ran, without her shoes, quickly until she found one and ordered an early supper for both she and Denam. Denam needed her support more than ever and even if he wanted her to leave him alone, she would not do so. Catiua would make him better; no matter what she had to do, she would make his pain go away.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure about this, Denam?" Catiua forced her voice to be kind and worried, but internally she did a small, excited jig. She lightly placed her hand onto Denam's shoulder and gave him a half-hug with a light press against his back. Denam turned away from the open door and nodded.<p>

"Yes." His voice had some strength to it, but still lacked the confidence it once held. "I can't stay in there, the memories are too strong. As you say, Catiua, I must move on with my life at some point." His voice cracked at the end of his sentence, the only sign that he felt any emotion at all for the event. Denam had taken to his impassive facade and very rarely showed any other expression. It was a way he defended himself from his violent emotions. Catiua knew what he felt, as she had spent almost every moment awake with him. For the first days after Olivya died, Denam had refused to eat more than a few bites of food and his sleep was sporadic, constantly interrupted by gasps and screams so painful it was as if an Ogre attempted to steal his soul. Catiua had stayed by his side and protected him; like when they were children, Catiua had held him and brought his head onto her lap where she would stroke her fingers over his forehead and through his shortened hair. As adults it was an incredibly intimate position, one Catiua had dreamed about over the last year. To live her dream was bittersweet, as it was only due to Denam's night terrors. The most dramatic change from Denam towards Catiua was that he no longer called her "sister" and instead spoke her name. Their journey was slow, but Catiua felt as if Denam slowly opened up to her. She saw him when he was most vulnerable, as no one else did, and she would never judge him for it.

"Olivya would want that, too." The subdued voice of Cistina sounded from behind them. Denam lowered his head in a moment of vulnerability, his eyes pressed more firmly closed than normal, before he nodded his acquiescence to the Phoraena girl. The Phoraena family had been shocked to hear of Olivya's death; Sherri had taken it the hardest and she had been almost as broken as Denam. Sherri was an emotional woman, much like Catiua, and death upset her easily. Her presence was worrisome, however, as every time Sherri saw the Queen, her eyes would darken in an angry, accusatory glare. Catiua knew it was impossible for Sherri to have learned of the poison, but she found herself unable to meet the elder woman's fierce, angry gaze and always looked away; her own guilt, however little she had, forced her into submission. It was perhaps a bit belated, but Catiua realized how selfish she had been, and how many lives she had changed, with Olivya's death. Denam was broken and the Phoraena sisters all fell into a light depression; even the strongest, Cerya, had mourned deeply. Catiua felt for the lives she had touched, but if they knew what a truly dark and demon-touched woman Olivya had been, they, too, would be pleased with her death. In many ways, Catiua had kept them from the shadows. Their memories of Olivya would be pleasant and happy, not memories of a traitor who dishonored their family with the dark arts. The one act Catiua regretted, and it did haunt her dreams, was the unborn baby. Denam had been so happy and excited whenever he discussed it with Olivya and Catiua over their midday meals that Catiua had shared his enthusiasm. That child had been untouched by its mother's sins and did not deserve to die. Catiua hoped it rested with the Great Father.

"Thank you for your assistance, Cistina." Denam smoothly veered the subject away from what Olivya would have wanted. Catiua could not have done it better herself. Denam turned and lightly forced Catiua's hand away from his shoulder as he walked past. He did not heed her or Cistina as he walked by, his closed eyes directed ahead. Catiua rushed after him after she gave Cistina a silent apologetic glance. Denam's brusque action was odd, for he had not been confident or controlled enough to act as such in the Scales since Olivya's death. He had gotten to know the castle's halls and could travel around certain wings, as long as he knew where his room was, Catiua's room was, or where the Great Hall was. He could make his way back to his new room without Catiua's guidance, but it would be slow. Catiua lightly took Denam by the elbow; it had taken time, but she had finally hesitantly admitted that Denam was not as independent as he was before his blindness. He could do many things without assistance, eat, bathe, dress, even spar and walk around, but new areas were dangerous, and parties without an escort even more so. She understood, to an extent, why Olivya stayed beside him as a guide, and as such, Catiua had begun to assist him in more open areas. Catiua quietly appreciated Denam's reliance; he was often rather cold and withdrawn in his sadness, so whenever he showed a bit of weakness or even a light smile, Catiua's day would brighten.

Their relationship had changed. There was no doubt that both Denam and Catiua were no longer the same people they were as children. Catiua had become more ambitious, she could admit it, but she also felt more responsibility towards others. She had begged Denam to flee when they had been hunted in the war; now she would not do the same. Denam's changes were more subtle than his blindness and his firm, more powerful personality. He had calmed; without Vyce's rather brash influence, Denam no longer felt so spiteful. It was difficult to get Denam angry, if it was possible at all. The closest Catiua had been able to get him to it was at the mention of certain Lodissians and their actions, but even then he had simply clamped up and did not give into her bait. Their relationship, too, had taken twists and turns, more prominently after Olivya's death. At first, Denam had been completely cold to Catiua; she had taken no offense, as it was natural he be upset at his wife's death. His change in personality towards her had been dramatic and almost instantaneous. It occurred, one day, when Catiua had discussed plans on how to deal with the threat of a particular noble family who spoke openly in distaste of Denam's presence and some of Catiua's decisions. Catiua had spoken of her plans and thoughts on how to deal with the dissenters, more to herself than to Denam. Denam had not paid much attention, instead he had simply started into nothingness for almost a full ten minutes before he had lightly smiled and said "You've changed, Catiua. The decisions can be quite difficult; it seems you've taken to using a firm hand." It had been the first time he called her by her name since his return and the first time he had praised her as Queen at all. Catiua had blushed for the rest of the day, even if she never had quite figured out what brought the odd words on.

Denam's new room was close to Catiua's. It was much larger than his old room, even if he did not have many possessions to decorate with; she still felt it fit his rank more than the small guest quarters he once shared with the Sibyl. Denam did not plan to leave Heim any time soon, he had told Catiua, as his will to travel had died along with Olivya. Denam's quarters were traditional and fine, much like Catiua's, with large windows and two fireplaces, one in the guest room and one in the bed chamber. His bath chamber and tub were larger than Catiua's and she wondered if such a large room was truly necessary. He had a practice room off to the other side of his guest room, which had previously been an area for the room's second inhabitant. Denam did not practice with the normal soldiers and, when he did, the soldiers stayed away and fought amongst themselves. They would not openly admit it, but the younger, inexperienced soldiers of Heim knew the blind Denam could defeat them with relative ease.

Catiua and Denam removed their shoes as they entered Denam's new guest room, where, expectedly, the entrance was. Due to his blindness and easy shock, not mention the dagger he slept with below his pillow that he would use when worried, the servants had been ordered not to disturb Denam unless he called for them or at specific, scheduled times of day when his room needed to be cleaned or for meals. The windows were open and a light, but cool, breeze filled the room; Denam seemed to enjoy it, as he had been in his dank, dirty, humid chambers for a prolonged period. From the day Olivya died and on, Denam had not left what had once been his guest chambers; his food had been delivered three times a day and he accepted visits from guests, but he had not desired to leave or even move out of his bed to practice with his blade until weeks after the fateful day. Even if it was such a small thing, his mood lightened a bit at the fresh, clean air as if it signified his new, clear mind. Denam walked cautiously through the room, his hands moved over each surface as he got to know the unfamiliar area. Catiua smiled as she watched his delicate strokes over the walls, the table, the fireplace, the windows, and the doors. As he did so, she unintentionally grasped at her favored brooch; it had become almost a part of her, just as much as Denam had become a part of her heart.

As Denam finished his exploration of the guest room, he murmured quietly, hand on the table near the window "I'd like to be alone."

Catiua turned her gaze away. How could he say that, after all she did for him? Her devotion was unmatched, could he at least not give her a bit of his time? He would not have said such to Olivya! Catiua did not move from her place near the door. She calmed herself with a few deep breaths, but it did little to soothe her inner anger. She was pleased at how kind her voice and words sounded. "I just wish to help you, Denam."

"You've helped more than enough!" Denam snapped with uncharacteristic ferocity. Catiua gasped and took a step back, unused to Denam's cool tone. Even Denam seemed shocked at his harsh words and forced his mouth shut immediately after. He ran a hand through his short hair with a sigh. ". . .I apologize, that was uncalled for." He said no more and felt his way into a chair at the table he stood by. In a complete disregard for manners, Denam put his elbows onto the table and leaned his head into his hands. Catiua walked over to him lightly and ran her hands up and down his back; it had always calmed him as a child and, even as an adult, it did not cease to work its miracles. Denam very slightly relaxed under the touch, just enough to Catiua to know he was not completely averse to her presence. "Catiua." Denam did not look up, his voice lightly muffled from its downward position in his hands. "Should you really be here?"

"What do you mean?" Catiua stopped her light touches when Denam lifted his head. He did not turn to face Catiua, but he did not need to; eye contact was pointless with him.

"You are Queen. You've more to do than stand beside a man who mourns his lost wife." There was a subtle bite to his words that Catiua knew was not intended to be heard. She ignored the intonation and replied very gently, but with stubbornness that wordlessly told Denam she would not leave, no matter what he said.

"There is nothing and no-one more worthy of my time than you, Denam." Catiua unintentionally spoke his name with a light desire. She removed her hand from his back and embarrassment; even Catiua had enough class to not _openly _pursue a man who mourned.

"I see." Denam looked troubled for a moment before he quickly hid the emotion, it was an odd reaction. Maybe he thought of his own actions where he had abandoned Catiua for duty with the Resistance? There were times that she would give her own eyes to see what went on in Denam's head, he was so mysterious; it only added to his appeal. "You cannot run a country effectively if all you do is stand at my side." He scolded. Catiua smiled brightly in response. _That_ was the Denam she knew; his condition slowly improved even if at times it did not seem so.

Catiua brushed his words off. "I've advisors and assistants for this very purpose." Denam's frown returned and, unlike before, it did not dissipate behind his impassive mask. Catiua returned her hand to his back and trailed her fingers up to Denam's neck in an intimate gesture, well beyond what was normal contact for siblings. Denam did not react.

"So if I go sit in your meeting room, you'll do your work?" Catiua, too, frowned; Denam had always been the clever man, she should have expected no less from him. The Queen knew he was right; Catiua had temporarily abandoned her duty to care for him. Queen was a position where she could not just lounge and do whatever she wanted, no matter how much she kicked and screamed otherwise.

"But I'm worried for you." Catiua tried her best to give Denam a light, needy tone that said she would never leave his side. Denam sighed and stood in frustration and knocked Catiua's hand off as he did so. He slowly walked through the guest room until he found his bedchamber. Like he had with the guest room, Denam slowly made his way around and explored with his hands in attempt to ignore Catiua. Catiua stood in the doorway and let him learn the area, unsure of what to say or do. Denam had been more emotional of late; she worried that her words would set him off. After what was about a quarter of an hour of uncomfortable silence between the two as the young male explored the room, Denam sad down at the end of his bed. Catiua knew she should leave, but she refused to allow Denam to writhe internally. She needed to take his mind off his worries, and to bring back pleasant memories, as she had in the past. Catiua had just the idea and she approached Denam slowly so he would not be surprised at her presence. She sat beside him and put her hand affectionately on his leg; to her pleasure, he did not remove it.

"Do you remember your eighth birthday?" Catiua held back a giggle at the thought. The entire day could not have been more of a disaster. Denam and Vyce had gotten into a spat the day before over some pointless thing neither remembered. Catiua and Prancet had made Denam a fresh, if a bit amateurish, dinner and dessert so eat with family and friends. Vyce, rascal that he was, interrupted their meal, very much naked, and stole the dessert from the table before he ran out. The entire room had been silent for almost a minute before Denam had started to cry. It had not been Vyce's actions that upset the selfless young Denam, instead, the boy had been sad because Catiua and his father's hard work had gone to waste. Catiua had been so angry at Vyce that she had got up from the table, even in her long dress, and had chased the nude boy down the streets of Golyat until he collapsed in exhaustion. The pie, unfortunately, had been impossible to save. As Catiua reminisced about Denam, she saw what a sweet selfless thing he had been, even when young. In many ways, he had not changed at all.

Her words earned her a smile from Denam, as well as a light chuckle. "I was so upset, but I remember you yelled and chased him through the streets, dress hiked up to your knees. I'm sure you woke more than one of our neighbors up that night." It was the first smile she had earned from him; even if only for a time, she was pleased she could bring Denam happiness. Denam's smile faded after a moment as Catiua realized why the subject turned sour: Vyce. Denam had been tight-lipped about what happened to their old friend and had refused to elaborate to Catiua. She had heard rumors and knew many of them were baseless or flat out wrong, but after Denam's harsh reaction and strict refusal to discuss the events, she never learned what truly happened, or even if he still lived. Catiua doubted the latter.

"Denam. . ." Catiua removed her hand from his leg and instead encircled her arm around his waist. She brought her other arm across his chest in a hug that he did not return. "It's not your fault." She whispered, even if she knew the words would not pacify him.

"You're wrong. I was unable to save anyone." Denam's voice was weak, filled with self-pity. Catiua could not empathize with him, as she had never felt like she had led anyone to their deaths, but she understood the responsibility Denam kept hidden inside.

Catiua felt bad for her next words, but like Catiua had once needed the firmness, so did Denam. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You saved Donnalto. Arycelle. Oelias. Cistina. Sherri. Even more, you saved me." Catiua quietly noted the list was primarily made up of women. Of course, Catiua could not have been the only one attracted to Denam's charm. "You did your best, no one can ask you to do more. Everyone accepts you as who you are, no matter your mistakes. Why can you not accept yourself? The war is over, you must stop mulling over the past and look to the future, as you once told me to do!"

Denam seemed shocked at her words and stiffened in her arms. He did not pull back, so Catiua clutched at him harder, to make her point clear. After a moment he leaned his head down against her and returned the warm embrace. His cheek was smooth and warm and he smelled like the soap Catiua had picked out for him. He was so sturdy under her arms, as if he could never break. She did not want the moment of intimacy to ever end and held her breath, as if an exhale would push the former-Commander away.

After a long moment, Denam released Catiua and pushed her away as he stood up. Catiua followed closely as Denam slowly made his way back to the door into the guest room and through it until he reached his training room. Like he had with the other rooms, he ran his hands over the wall of the plain, large, rather empty room. The only furniture inside was a weapon rack that held multiple weapons of many types and a long wooden bench to sit upon when tired and in need of a break. Denam's blade remained in his bedchamber near his bed, so he carefully picked through the hilts of the weapons in the rack and tested the weight of the training blades before he picked one with a nod to himself. He put it back in for a moment as he did some stretches in his arms and legs, in order to not pull a muscle; Denam was as thorough and organized as always. Catiua left Denam to his practice and sat down at the end of the bench to watch with a smile. His skill had not diminished; though Catiua had not seen him use a blade in the last few Scales, he had obviously not neglected to spend time with it, likely every evening once he had recovered to the point where he could leave his bed. It was good to see him active and do more than sit around and mope. The difference between the Denam who had only a few moments ago sat on his bed in sadness and the one who swung his blade with practiced efficiency in front of her was incredible. For a moment, Catiua had seen Denam as a young, fragile boy that she needed to protect and manipulate to make his worries disappear. The Denam with a sword was the man she had fallen in love with; it was an odd contradiction that appealed to every baser instinct within her.

The room was silent for a long time. Denam's heavy breath was the main sound that echoed through the small training room, his footsteps, the shift of his weight under the blade, and the light rustle of Denam's clothing all accompanied it. The breeze from earlier had stilled and no longer entered from the open windows, so the heat from outside, paired with a strenuous workout, made Denam sweat. His formal, very battle-inappropriate clothes clung to his form nicely. Catiua, in her rather bored state of mind, found her mind wander in the direction of what Denam's body would look like sweaty and naked. She had seen him naked before, but not in way her mind wandered towards. Catiua's imagination had been entirely inappropriate of late, her hormones raged whenever she was around Denam. For so long Catiua had been a Priest that when her body burst from its shell, she had finally understood a bit more of what men went through. In some ways, she felt bad to do so, like she should could to feel sadness along with Denam.

When Denam finally stopped, Catiua did not know how long it was after he began, he spoke again, words both blatant and mysterious. "The problem is not that I did not save them. . ." His worlds trailed off. Catiua did not know if he spoke to her or to himself. "It is that I could have acted, with Vyce, with Father. . .with Olivya. . ." Denam again felt his way through the room and back to the weapon rack where he put the sword away, with only minor difficulty.

The words sat ill with Catiua, as she did not entirely understand their intent, nor what they meant. She looked down at her hands and barely noticed when Denam approached her. He lightly touched the side of her body as his fingers grasped their way up until he found her arm.

"Come Catiua, let us eat." His warm smile made her forget all worries and the odd comment he made only moments before. It reminded her of her journey and of her goal: the future.

* * *

><p>To Catiua's annoyance, Denam continued to stare in his odd, blank way at the letter he held. Catiua did not know who it was from, or what it contained, but when she had asked, Denam had immediately fallen silent and changed the subject. Since its arrival he had been quiet and withdrawn, as if the news worried him. The situation became even odder when she took into consideration his lack of sight and that he could not read whatever letters were written on the parchment he held. So who had read it to him? And why did it bother him so? She supposed it did not matter, it was Denam's business more than hers and she trusted he would do what was best for both she and Valeria. At the time of their marriage, Denam had been adamant that when it came to politics, Catiua take charge for it was not his right; he had no issue with Catiua's rule as long as she remained devoted. The new Lord had been frustrated that his Queen had continually put him above the people, and her duties, and had eventually requested that she focus less on the attempt to please him and more on the inner workings of the country. In particular, Denam scolded her for the neglect of her shadows and whisperers. Denam had re-established the lines with his ascension to Lord and his information network soon became one of the most elaborate in the country, to the point where some of the information he obtained terrified her. Denam could ask his whisperers what any noble had for their midday meal on a specific date and receive an accurate answer.<p>

"If you continue to obsess over that letter, I am going to throw it into the fireplace." Catiua snapped. She did not mean to take her frustration out on Denam and silently apologized with the simple arm around his waist. She was frustrated; he spent more time with his work than he did Catiua, even if most of the time he remained by her side when he did so. The situation was eerily reminiscent of when she had fled from him and turned to the Dark Knights. After a moment of silence, Denam put the small parchment aside and returned the gesture, his bare skin pressed into hers; its warmth enveloped them both and Catiua released a sigh of absolute contentment. How long had she waited for Denam to return her feelings? Every day felt like a dream; Denam's presence alone almost made her float through the sky on a bubble of her own happiness. Denam's lack of popularity with the nobility was balanced by her own bloodline, and Catiua's lack of skill was compensated by Denam's greater experience and knowledge. They worked well together to manage and rule Valeria. The country was more vibrant, united, and alive than it had ever been and continued to prosper.

"I apologize." Denam kissed the top of Catiua's head. "'twas a simple threat." _That was all?_ Catiua wanted to scold him for his worries, but the way he leaned beside her and cuddled closely stole the words from her lips. His presence was a drug in itself. After a moment, Denam pulled away and she immediately missed his touch. He did not seem to care when she ran her hand up his arm, over his shoulder, and into his hair, which he had once again grown out - longer than it had been before the war, his mind still on his bloody duty.

"How do they plan to do it? Assassins? Torture? Poison, perhaps in food?" Catiua huffed in annoyance before she turned away. She barely cared for Denam's answer as she closed her eyes and pressed her head against the pillow.

"I'm not quite sure. You're knowledgeable enough about poisons to tell if one was used in our supper. We needn't worry about that." Catiua's eyes shot open and she resisted the urge to completely sit up, her breath hitched in her chest. _Impossible. _It had been in jest, perhaps a reference to her skill in Dark magic. Denam just had an odd sense of humor, that was all. She laughed lightly in response to her foolishness and lowered her head back down on the pillow to go to sleep for the night, but the words had caused her adrenaline to flow; she was alert and awake long after her husband had fallen into slumber. It took her well over an hour before she finally drifted off beside her Lord.

Catiua awoke some time later to a strange sound. She did not know what it was, but it felt almost as if it were the hum of magic. She opened and closed her eyes to try and clear the fog in her mind. She sat up, head woozy, and blinked. A bright light shined to her right, above Denam. Catiua turned her head in confusion as she noted Denam remained asleep beside her. The sight in front of her was what she least expected; beside Denam on the bed was Olivya, or, rather, what was once Olivya. The flesh on her face was half-decayed and almost dripped off of her face; her teeth were visible in the gaping hole where there had once been a cheek. Her skin was grey, but shined barely translucent in the darkness. One of her eyes was gone entirely, and her lips looked as if they had been eaten away by whatever organisms had assisted with the decomposition of her body. Her hair seemed to have fallen out in clumps and one of her eyes was gone entirely. There was no way, it was impossible. Catiua breathed in sharply, Olivya had been dead far too long to be so whole! Catiua shook as she looked down between the two. She could not hold back her scream at the sight of the half-developed fetus, barely recognizable as human at all, that lay asleep between Olivya and Denam.


	18. Taste: OzOzma

This is quite possibly my most ridiculous short story yet. There is no rhyme or reason for it, nor is there any chance of anything remotely similar happening in canon. It is simply a product of my overactive imagination and my joy of sticking Denam into every imaginable bad situation. If you absolutely abhor the idea of an impossible, nonsensical story, you can think of this as one of the consequences of Denam using the WORLD command a bit too often. Lesson learned? Don't do it.

This is an AU, but it's based off of Oz's dialogue in 3L. You'll know which almost immediately. Characters included are Oz, Ozma, Denam, and Cistina. Why Cistina? I imagine, of all of the TO women, she would have the most children.

**_Taste_**

* * *

><p>"Da!" The young boy's voice rang through the room as he thumped his tiny fists on the table in a demand for attention from his father. Had he a toy or silverware, he would have pounded with that as well; the child was quite a stubborn thing and required diligent observation by either parent in order to be kept away from trouble. He was almost as much trouble as the man who sired him.<p>

"Hush, your father will be back soon." Ozma scolded her toddler. Unlike both of his parents, the little boy had pale blond hair, though he did share their darker eye color. If the blond color remained as he aged, Ozma knew she would need to set strict rules as to which women were allowed to see him. She imagined he would grow to be quite attractive, but as he was now, her son was a bit fat, as were many young and well-fed toddlers, and wore a handsome little blue velvet vest over a white top with dark trousers that hid his thickly-wrapped and hopefully water-proofed cloth diaper. For all his demands, the lack of sleep she suffered, and effort he required, Ozma was satisfied with her young, accidentally-conceived child and had never been happier.

"Ma!" The blond giggled at his mother's attention, a bright smile on his features. The thump from his fists stopped as he raised his hands into the air in Ozma's direction. The look of hope was infectious and Ozma returned his vibrant smile. "Go up!" He waved his arms back and forth to make absolutely sure his mother understood exactly what he wanted. Ozma did not move, but the smile remained. Oz spoiled the boy; she knew her brother could not say no to the son he was so proud of. With Oz's irresponsibility, it was up to Ozma to act as the firmer hand and ground him out of selfishness.

"No, you remain there. 'Twas you who desired supper early." Ozma's words were light, but she felt a bit foolish as she gave such an elaborate reply to the toddler. She did not know how much he understood but he seemed to comprehend most of her words more often than not.

"Mama! Ma!" Denam's voice happily rose at the reaction. At times the boy simply desired his mother's attention, even if he sometimes acted negatively to get it; she wondered if he received _that _particular trait from his father well. The young boy started to bang his fists against the table as he had only a moment before. The quiet "thunk" against the firm wood did little, but it seemed to be his outlet for emotions; Ozma was unsure if she should allow it to continue, as it seemed to amuse him, or to stop the horrible habit before it became more difficult to handle. "D'nam! D'nam want man meat!" He continued loudly. Those particular words certainly got his mother's attention and she rose from her chair and rushed over to Denam to lift and silence him. She silently cursed Oz for the horrible meals he had started Denam on when he had been barely old enough to eat solid food. Ozma often let her brother do as he would as long as it did not affect her, but it had been a mistake to leave the young Denam with him when she left on assignment. Her orders had only sent her away from her small, odd family for a week, but when she came back she found that Oz had not only changed Denam's diet completely, but had started to feed the boy his own favorite meal. She remembered the day vividly, as it had made her ill to have her son act as his father did from such a young age; Ozma would not allow certain _other_ traits to be passed onto him, no matter how much Oz whined otherwise.

Ozma smiled uncomfortably as Denam beamed into her eyes, pleased that his mother had finally picked him up. His pudgy arms grasped at her in one of his attempts at a warm hug and Ozma's smile widened. Inappropriate comment or no, he was still such a sweet boy and continually wormed his way deeper into her heart, even when she was in the foulest of moods. "You musn't say such things aloud, Denam." Ozma scolded him firmly, even as he hugged her. Denam's head tilted upwards to look at his mother; his big brown eyes met hers and started to water at Ozma's tone of disapproval. Even the lightest scolding upset the child and he would do as much as he could to please his parents to regain their favor - even if he forgot the reason they were mad a few hours later. Ozma lightly kissed her son's forehead and put him down onto the ground. He made a low whine, but immediately silenced himself. Denam knew his mother despised any whine or scream for attention, so he had found better, if more dangerously innovative, ways to get what he desired. He instead lifted his arms up again towards his mother, who ignored them. Unhappy with the result, he waddled over to Ozma's hand and grasped upward for it, able to reach little higher than the tips of her fingers. The lad was curious and inquisitive, but, fortunately for Ozma, had some sense of caution and self-preservation that many babes lacked. He often stayed by the side of either of his parents, shy and nervous, until something caught his attention - then he would make a beeline for it until he discovered what exactly said object was and what he needed to do to obtain it.

Almost as soon as he got bored with his attempt to reach Ozma's hand, the door swung open. Ozma knew who entered without need to glance in his direction; Oz's footsteps and swagger were easy enough to place even in a large crowd. Oz had finally returned from his journey to obtain some "man meat," as Denam not-so-tactfully phrased it. Slaves were cheap and common enough that Oz would never have to "hunt" for dinner for his son, but to Ozma's annoyance, her brother declined to feed Denam slaves. Her twin was ridiculously stubborn; not only did he refuse to feed Denam any supper but human flesh, Ozma thought perhaps it was the only meal he could properly cook, but it was required to be from a "high class" human as well. They would only accept the best for their son, after all. Ozma would have none of her brother's nonsense and did not agree with his diet in the least. Denam had no such qualms and instead rushed over to his father at full speed and grasped at the leg of his trousers.

"Da!" The blond boy clapped his hands together happily as the mismatched duo approached Ozma again. The elder male had a self-satisfied smile on his features, but also lightly warm expression that he only showed Ozma and their son in private. Ozma moved back across the room to the other side of table and sat down in her chair before Oz could greet her with a kiss. The Lodissian picked up her silver goblet off the table and took a long sip of the wine; she knew she would need the lowered inhibitions if she was to tolerate her brother's presence for the night.

"This needs to stop, Oz." Ozma watched as her brother placed the plate of food onto the table. Had she not know otherwise, she simply would have expected it to be another plate of fine Dragon Steak, cooked slightly rare. Oz kneeled down and picked up Denam, who continued to pull at the leg of his trousers lightly in his demand for attention. Her brother removed the toddler's small hands and lifted their son up under his armpits to place him in the game chair he had only moments ago been in with a light kiss on his forehead.

"Dada!" Denam cried happily at his father's attention and pointed at his food. Oz picked up one of the cloth napkins from the table and tucked the top into Denam's blue vest to prevent any drips onto his fine clothes. Oz ignored his sister's glare as he violently stabbed at the small squares of meat he had cut for Denam with a fork.

"Look, Denam, I've brought your food. Time to eat." Denam made quiet sounds of anticipation as his father lifted the meat into his mouth. Ozma shook her head in disgust and drank down another large sip of wine. She had long ago learned that it was impossible to move Oz once his mind was set. _Stubborn man. _

"Is this necessary?" She sighed. She asked the question every night and knew the answer before Oz even bothered to reply. Ozma dropped her face into her hands in disgust; she could not watch her son be tainted by his father.

"He enjoys it." He smiled down at their son, who focused entirely on the food he was fed. "It will make him grow into a healthy boy. Surely you wish for his success?" Ozma clenched her fists. Oz knew exactly the words that would cause Ozma to give into him. Of course Ozma wished for the best future for her son! She wanted Denam to be happy, healthy, skilled, and powerful - but to feed him meat every day would not allow him to do such. A stern upbringing, daily lessons, and a balanced diet would serve him better than Oz's continued obsession with human flesh.

"You could just give him food fit for a normal child." Ozma finished the rest of her wine and immediately poured herself a second glass. She knew she should stop with her hesitation and simply go over to the other side of the table and force the food away from her son. Ozma cursed her weak will when it came to her family; she had never stopped Oz when they had been younger and, as she watched her son's expression and heard his giggles and pleasant sounds of satisfaction, she could not stop her brother now. The situation was entirely her fault and the woman did not know if she could stop it even if she tried. Denam would be heartbroken if his father did not feed him every night. She drank another long sip of her wine.

"But our Denam is most certainly not normal. He must have food that befits him." Ozma smiled lightly at the pride in her brother's voice. She supposed it was good that Oz had some focus in his life, even if he took what was normally a commonplace act and turned into a darker, more twisted one. Oz had calmed some, since Denam's birth, and for that Ozma was grateful; there had been times she thought she would go crazy with Oz and his crude comments and obsession with women. Ozma looked back across the table at her son and felt her own pride well as he attempted to eat on his own. Ozma had done her best to teach him manners, even at his very young age, and it seemed she finally got through to him, at least to an extent. He did remarkably well for one so young even if, after a moment, the boy seemed to get frustrated that he could not stick his fork into the meat properly

"Denam." Ozma spoke firmly before Oz could intervene. Denam looked up into his mother's gaze and his eyes watered from sadness at the cool words spoken in his direction. Ozma's heart melted within her, just as it had earlier, but she remained firm: Denam was to learn table proper manners and he _most definitely _would not end up like his father.

* * *

><p>Cistina Phoraena, if her last name held meaning at all any longer, walked silently through the crowded streets of the city of Rhime. She had a large basket in-hand and wore a fake smile on her features. Her spear was on her back, but she was out of practice and could not use it as effectively as she once had. Her long hair was pulled away from her face with a loose leather band and she wore a long, fine dress rather than the dull clothes of a commoner. Had she her way, she'd wear no clothes at all over the expensive garments her "owner" had bought for her.<p>

Cistina did not know if she hated him or loved him, but the Lodissian man who called her "possession" was who her life revolved around and, fight it as she liked, she had no choice in the matter. Her "master," as he demanded she call him, was a man slightly younger than her by the name of Denam. When the Lodissians had invaded the Valerian Isles some years earlier, Cistina had been a member of the Liberation Front with her sister. Cerya had sensed the turmoil that brewed between the clans and wanted to use it to her advantage to force all of the clans to unite and force the threat from their shores, but events had not proceeded as she planned. It was little more than a year after the Lodissians arrived that the Front was massacred. That day was the first time she saw him, her "master." Denam and the man she later learned was his father had brutally murdered everyone in Boed Fortress. There were no survivors but she and Cerya. Cerya and Cistina had fought until they could fight no more; but both women had collapsed in exhaustion as the duo approached them. The elder, Denam's father, had taken an interest to Cerya immediately, but Denam had barely cared for the situation at all. The younger Denam had wanted to leave the Phoraena girls to their deaths, but, as Cistina remembered very vividly, Denam's father had declared the "one in yellow" to belong to Denam and he would take Cistina and use her as he saw fit. That was the last time Cistina ever saw her elder sister.

It had been horrible at first. Cistina had done her very best to fight against her "master," as she was certainly no slave; she had fought for freedom in her country and wanted to continue to do so. Reality was not so kind; the Moh Glacius man was an excellent caster and had magics unlike any she had ever seen. If Cistina went out of her allotted "range," she was immediately incapacitated with pain. She had no idea how the spells worked, but she knew them to be an elaborate Dark magic that was used specifically on slaves. The Bakram had quickly learned to be obedient, else she suffer dreadful consequences that often broke the border of physical pain into a more devastating mental agony. At one point, Cistina had been so desperate that she had tried to end her life in shame, but the spell prevented that, too. It seemed Lodissians were used to disobedient slaves and had an entire, elaborate set of magic devoted entirely to their control and management.

It was not as if Denam had only brought her pain; quite the opposite, Denam had given her four wonderful, happy, children who she loved with all of her heart. He was a gentle lover and Cistina thought there were times he might even have some fondness for her. Even more, no matter what he thought of Cistina, he absolutely adored their children. He acted an entirely different person around them, with warm smiles and light laughter; the children loved their father just as much as he loved them. It amazed her to watch their interactions and filled her with a quiet happiness that told her no matter what, she could not give up. Denam often spent the night in lessons of etiquette, magic, and culture and the children would eat up every word he said as if they were spoken by the Great Father himself. But the moment he turned away from them, even if just to glance at Cistina, he would become impassive, even dangerous. He had made it very clear on multiple occasions that he disliked the Islands and planned to leave them as soon as he possibly could.

Every day, Denam went out to work. Cistina did not know what he did, but she assumed he had his duties as a Templar like his father. Denam provided for their family well and their children did not want for anything. For Cistina, it hurt. To be so powerless and that she could barely do what she wanted, to have to be submissive to her oppressor, and, most of all, it was impossible to be true to herself. The Bakram woman clutched at her basket and forced her thoughts away from herself. As long as she thought of the future and her children, she was happy. Cistina smiled brightly at the merchants, who all knew her by name, and picked through the fruits and vegetables. Denam was firm about their children and their diet. Every night their meals would be well balanced and healthy, Cistina was to prepare the fruit and grain, and Denam prepared the meat. It was an acceptable trade-off and it pleased Cistina to have her children grow so healthy and strong. They were all she had to live for and she would die before any harm came to them.

Cistina kept the small, fake smile on her face as she walked through the market. All was it was normally and nothing stood out except one peculiar guard. This guard stood and loudly shouted in the middle of the walkway about some nonsense in Phorampa and, as he did such, he handed out small parchments to any who were interested. Her curiosity got the best of her and Cistina walked over to the new guard to request a parchment. The man gave her an odd look, as apparently women like Cistina were not normally interested in whatever the page held, but gave it to her anyway. In large bold betters across the small page was:

_**WANTED**  
>For murder – The "Reaper of the Wildwoods"<br>Reward: 10,000 Goth  
>See city guard for details<em>

Cistina read over the parchment, confused. "You interested?" The man interrupted her. His accent was low class and, by its intonation, he was a Galgastani. Cistina nodded cautiously and allowed the man to continue, his words were difficult to understand as she was unused to communication with such people. "No one knows 'bout 'im, really. 'e's murdered more than a few of the nobles and e'ry merc and 'unter we sent after 'im."

Cistina felt life well within her. _This was her chance to make a difference! _"I see. Thank you. Phorampa, you said?" The Galgastani guard nodded and went about his business with a nod of his head. Cistina felt a surprising bout of excitement well within her. The Wildwoods were in Cistina's "accepted" travel range; little more than a day away from Rhime if she went alone, Cistina often traveled to the Woodlands when Denam was assigned his time off, as to stay away from him. She was capable of self defense and, as long as she did not venture too close to the main trails, it was easy enough to gather herbs from the depths. Cistina was overjoyed; though she no longer had control of her own future, she could still save the lives of others. Cistina's fake smile finally reached her eyes in true pleasure. Her spark had returned; she would capture this man - not for the money, but for the safety of the people and the country.

Cistina had a terrible habit of overestimating herself. She had been confident earlier in the day when she left Denam's manor, but soon after she entered the woods, she started to doubt and cursed her brashness. Cistina was skilled, but out of practice and, more importantly, out of shape. Magic was not a skill one lost, but the use of her spear would be more difficult without the muscle mass. Even worse, she suffered from the loss some of her speed and coordination. Skill was nothing without the strength to back it up, and vice-versa. The woods were quiet as always; in Spring, the plants and flowers were beautiful, bright, vibrant, and green. Unfortunately, it was Fall and Phorampa was not a coniferous forest. Many of the trees had started to shed their leaves and those that hadn't looked ready to. There was a good deal of undergrowth that crunched under Cistina's heavy boots, but most of it was dead for the year at Winter's fast approach. None of the wildlife seemed to be about, but she heard the call of birds in the sky from some distance away.

Cistina cautiously strolled through the forest; she kept away from the main road, but stayed closely enough that she constantly had a view of it. If it truly was the "Reaper" who killed nobles, it meant that he likely kept to the path and preyed on them when they least expected it. The Phoraena woman's job was made even more difficult as she noted that she was not the only hunter who roamed the Woodlands for bounty. On more than one occasion she watched others, soldiers and mercenaries, walk down the path, each well armed and armored. They seemed unharmed; Cistina quickly deduced that the Reaper preyed on these less capable of defense than the more skilled soldiers. It meant she was a prime target. Cistina shivered at the thought. No, she refused to allow herself to fall easily to whoever the villain was; she clutched her spear instinctively in worry.

The Bakram woman saw the Reaper's hunting grounds well before she saw any sign of the hunter or the hunted. It was _perfect. _Cistina easily saw why the man stayed Cistina had followed the long trail it would have led straight into a short, thin passage between two large boulders. From the ground, a traveler or hunter would be unable to see the top of the boulder; it gave the "Reaper" a perfect cover and defense. Cistina guessed her villain was a Wizard or an Archer as she judged the area. A Beast Tamer was also a possibility, but she doubted it, given the trail was well-traveled and beasts did not openly roam the road. Cistina's eyes continued to search as she slowed her pace, but were immediately attracted to a motion atop the boulder opposite of her. Atop the tall boulder was a shadowy figure, well hidden in a crevice. _This is too easy. _Cistina immediately kneeled behind a nearby tree and hoped the man hadn't seen her. She dropped to the ground and put her spear back over her shoulder so she could move unhindered. Cistina crawled slowly through the undergrowth, in attempt to get a better view of both the villain and her situation.

For over an hour she sat there, power lightly channeled in preparation for self-defense. Neither she nor her opponent moved over the course of the day, as each waited for their ideal time to strike. It was sunset when Cistina finally saw her opportunity. A nobleman, Cistina could not tell the family or clan, swaggered down the trail and approached the thin passage. He had a smirk on his features and on his back he carried a large Gryphon hide over his back. His sword was sheathed and he whistled a tune to an unfamiliar song. He was the type of foolish man the Reaper hunted, she knew; the young noble only used his blade to show off his wealth, she knew, and he likely had little true skill. When he was older he would do little more than sit on his bottom and drink wine all day long. Cistina disliked the type immensely and they were one of the reasons she had distanced herself from any Bakram nobility, even beyond her exile. Cistina immediately felt the man on the boulder across from her channel his magic as the noble came into view. The Reaper did not bother to hide his presence; his magic was Dark, twisted, and used with great skill and control. Cistina immediately stood from her hiding place and rushed down into the passage, but it was too late. The spell already had its hold on the man and Cistina did not have enough skill in the Light magics to remove it. Cistina looked at the young noble to see if he was harmed as she drew her spear in preparation for defense against the vile Reaper. The Reaper's spell seemed to be a mix of Bind and Paralyze; the noble, now that she was closer to him she saw him to be little more than a boy, could do nothing more than stand in place under the effects of the magic. The boy could see and hear the events around him and he could likely feel pain or pleasure, but he could do nothing to defend himself. Spells such as that were strong, but they wore off quickly and she only needed to buy the noble a few minutes of time before he could escape. But it was time she did not have as she saw the "Reaper" above her.

"You go too far, pet." Cistina almost dropped the spear on the ground in shock at the voice. Her "owner" jumped down from the rock ledge above her and landed lightly in the center of the passage. He lacked any of his more traditional heavy armor, but she could tell he wore a light chain under his loose outer shirt. Cistina did her best to stand proud, but Denam intimidated her with his cool gaze. In a moment before she could react, the Bakram felt him release a bit of magic into her and she fell to the ground in agony. Her entire body felt as if it burned in a fire and as if her skin was flayed from her muscles. She could not catch her breath as the spell made its way through her veins; it felt as if each blood vessel within her exploded and each muscle ripped individually. Her lungs burned as if she was in a heavily smoky room, but they also felt as if they were filled with water – the effect caused an instinctual panic. Her gaze was blurred not only with tears, but with bright specks that constantly-changing color from the pain in her head. After a moment that felt like an hour, the spell stopped its punishment, but Cistina found herself disarmed. She had released her spear and her magic in her attempt to tolerate the agony and was defenseless. As she recovered enough to think rationally, Cistina immediately tried channel her magic, but Denam had already predicted she would do so and had prematurely cast a spell to prevent the use of her magic.

Cistina could barely move, the memory of the pain still echoed through her body. Her sight remained blurred and her head spun, but she was coherent enough to try and struggle into an upward position in attempt to defy the Lodissian. Cistina did not know what had happened to the nobleman, but she did not care; she had to stop Denam before he murdered anyone else! She grasped around on hard, wet dirt around her for her spear, but only found mud and weeds. Cistina screamed when she felt Denam's booted foot kick into her side and did her best to avoid the instinctual curl of defense. It did not help, for immediately after, Denam leaned over her and rolled her onto her back in a position that exposed all of her vital organs. He put one knee on the ground beside her and the other over her chest to prevent any further attempts at escape.

"'Tis a shame it had to come to this." Denam continued, almost bored. His weight on her chest made her breaths difficult, but Cistina knew most of the difficulty came from the memory of the magic that filled her lungs. Even as her body slowly recovered from the pain of the Slave-spell, her mind panicked irrationally; she wanted to flee and be anywhere but away from the manic who kneeled atop her. She attempted to scream and turn her head away, but her voice did not work and the ground did not allow her to turn more than partially. "If only you had stayed home like a good little pet, then you would have been able to live your life." Denam made a dramatic sigh as he drew his dagger from the sheath at his belt. "If it is any consolation, my dear, your final actions will feed your children for the evening."

Cistina did not comprehend his words, nor did she even understand them. All she focused on was the way the dagger broke the skin of her neck and the way Denam sneered down at her. His dark, cold, lusty eyes were the last thing the Phoraena woman ever saw.

* * *

><p>It had been a good day. Denam had a light smile on his features as he walked into his manor in Rhime, three full plates of meat balanced in his arms. His youngest child was far too young to eat solid food, but an excellent meal awaited the elder three.<p>

"Da!" Denam's second child ran up to him and tugged at his pant leg in desperate search for attention. Denam's smile widened and he slowly walked into the dining room, his small son at his side. Denam had spent extra time with food preparation for the evening; the meat was not only perfect, but probably the best the large family even had. Denam knew the young ones would greatly enjoy the meal, just as he had only a half an hour before. When he reached the large, empty dining room, Denam placed the three plates at one end of the table. Though Denam had already supped for the night, he was well aware that every dinner with his family was more of a grand event or an adventure than an actual "supper," and the children needed to be carefully monitored at all times, lest they make a mess or get into an argument. Pleased with himself for his successful hunt, Denam kneeled down to the level of the young lad beside him and gave him a warm hug.

"Go call your siblings." Denam murmured firmly as he released the small boy and patted the top of his head. "'Tis time to eat."


	19. Scent: CanopusRavness

This cliché short story takes place some time post-game Law path, once you've recruited Iuria. I find the idea of the normally blunt and confident Canopus trying to woo the woman he loves, and not knowing quite how to do it "properly," to be amusing.

_**Scent**_

* * *

><p>"You must give this to her." Iuria Wolph pushed the small bundle into her brother's hands. Canopus frowned and grasped at the large, delicate item as he fingered the velvety petals of one of the white flowers in the bouquet. Iuria smiled softly and gently patted his shoulder in attempt to instill confidence within her sibling. "You worry too much. She will love it." The sweet smell of the flowers held in the small bundle wafted through her nostrils; it was unfamiliar when compared to any she had known in Xenobia, but it was incredibly pleasant. The Winged woman understood exactly why Dame Ravness enjoyed them, as she almost wanted a room of them for herself.<p>

"Sister. . . ." Iuria watched her brother's emotions flicker over his face. He was so open and easy to read! First he experienced confusion, then a light anger and annoyance at Iuria's constant desire to meddle in his affairs, and finally a hidden thankfulness that he would never vocalize, but did somehow seek to express. "You must learn to mind your business; what I do is no concern of yours." The male's words were crass, but his intonation was warm. He spoke with the intention to scold Iuria rather than attack her. Iuria smiled brightly in return and kissed her brother on the cheek. She knew him well enough to know that was he spoke in thanks, in his own odd way. Iuria turned to the far ramparts, where a beautiful woman stood and looked over the clear midday sky.

"Don't be such a hypocrite. You're helpless on your own." Iuria returned with an overly exaggerated sigh. Her brother did everything he could to keep a firm hand over her life and, more importantly, her relationships. It was absurd to think she would not do the same for him. They were family; Iuria wanted only happiness for her brother so, if necessary, she would intervene even if he did not wish her to. Iuria firmly put her hands onto her brother's shoulders and turned him away from her. She continued to point at the pale-haired woman who stood alone. "Now, off you go! Do try to show some class, brother; I'd best hear none of that teasing you always try on her!" Iuria crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot until Canopus released a sigh and nod. He walked with surprising caution over the quiet ramparts. He could have shortened the time if he flew, but Iuria could tell her brother took his time primarily because he was terribly nervous. She wanted to giggle; her brother's rare display of weakness was adorable.

Iuria gave her brother a moment of time to collect himself and gain some distance on her, before she quietly followed him. She stayed well away so that her brother would not hear or detect her, but closely enough that she would miss nothing of import. She was almost as nervous as her brother; the Xenobian worried her elder would make a mistake. It was a sister's job to trust in her brother and Iuria scolded herself for her nosiness, but she simply could not just wait behind and wait for Canopus to tell her what happened later. The Winged needed to see their interactions for herself so she could speak to Ravness if necessary, possibly drop a hint or two on her brother's behalf as well. Ravness obviously had some interest in Iuria's hot-headed brother, for they spoke every day at the same time and in the same place, but she doubted the other woman was even aware of her own emotions. She was so focused on her duty and responsibility that, more often than not, smaller events and more subtle words flew right over her head. Canopus had been difficult enough to convince to pursue the human woman, let alone court her, and each day when he spoke to her, he immediately backed into a mode of self-defense where he spoke brashly and with words that no proper man would use with a fine woman. _Those two are so helpless!_

Iuria saw more than she heard of the duo at first. Canopus strolled with a forced casual gait up to the woman and called out to her to prevent alarm. She willed herself to move faster, for if she waited too long she would miss the best part. Iuria stayed behind the wall and lowered herself almost to the floor so she would not be seen. She breathed as lightly as she could and smiled when she finally heard the quiet voices of the duo ahead of her. With caution, she poked her head over the top of the large stone block that hid her; Ravness and Canopus were already in their own world. So entranced they were by each other that Iuria could walk by the pair and they would not have noticed her. Iuria could feel the beginnings of a song in her mind; she witnessed true love at work.

"Wh-Where did you get this?" Ravness held the flower Iuria had picked for Canopus to her chest in both of her hands. She looked away from the flower for a moment and then glanced up at Canopus. Ravness truly did look like one of the fair maids in her ballads, her eyes wide in shock, cheeks lightly red from her blush, and a small not-quite-hidden smile on her lips.

"Oh, heh. . ." Canopus, too, blushed at the look he received from Ravness. He clenched and unclenched his fists in embarrassment. 'Fair maid' Ravness may be, but Canopus was not the elegant, steadfast knight who swept her off of her feet. Iuria might have to change the story around, for the sake of a more epic tale of love.

"Canopus these are. . ." Iuria had to listen carefully to even hear those quiet words from Ravness, but the woman's voice was so inaudible and demure that she was unable to understand the rest. The Songstress took a few more quiet steps toward the duo; the bottom of her winged dragged on the ground, but she paid them little heed. She had far more important matters to worry about than her own cleanliness.

"I, er. . .rather. . . _- we -, _saw you staring at them during our trip through the Wildwoods." Canopus's words were louder than Ravness's and Iuria could more easily hear them. The entire situation showed a side of her brother Iuria had never seen before. It went beyond nervousness; Canopus was utterly flustered. Usually her sibling was popular and, she barely dared to continue the thought, quite the ladies' man. Iuria had always scoffed at the shallow women who pursued him based on his appearance, background, or position and had chased them all away. Canopus, too, had been annoyed by the woman who pursued him, but now the wind had turned and 'twas he who hunted, if ineffectually.

"Y-You! You were watching me!" The former-Knight's voice rose in her accusatory tone. Ravness's voice quieted again and she blushed even redder. Iuria took a few more quiet steps forward. She was dangerously near and any closer would let them easily see and hear her; the Winged could not stop, for this was the climax! Iuria could never call herself a Songstress if she left before her brother finally won the heart of the woman he loved. Ravness tilted her head back up and met Canopus' eyes. The small smile she wore before widened and was no longer partially hidden behind her stern, confident mask. "These flowers are my mother's favorite. I've so many memories. . .the aroma defined my childhood." She spoke wistfully as she took a step forward towards the red-head. Canopus stiffened and did not move. ". . ."Thank you." Ravness closed her eyes and placed a chaste kiss onto Canopus' lips. It was a formal thanks from a proper woman to a proper man, but both Ravness and Canopus seemed to think it was more. They met eyes for a moment before Ravness quickly turned away.

To see Ravness in such a state certainly interested Iuria. The young woman was strong and determined, but when she was with the red-headed Winged she was as giggly and weak as a young noblewoman who cheered her chosen Knight during a hastilude. It was quite the change and, as a storyteller herself, Iuria found she liked the contradictions she saw. She did not, however, approve of her brother's almost daft performance. He simply stood as the woman walked away. It was as if both were in their own little world of fantasies. Iuria frowned and quickly stood from her hiding place. The two obviously wanted the same thing, was it so difficult to act upon their emotions? This certainly would not do for her tale at all!

Iuria stomped over to her brother and tapped him impatiently on the shoulder. That he had not turned and reacted to her presence immediately when he heard her footsteps signified that his mind was far away, probably on his lovely pale-haired companion. Iuria forced her frown to deepen in disapproval as Canopus turned towards her.

"Did I not tell you to leave it be?" Canopus's annoyance was dulled by his distraction. Though he now faced his sister, he did not care to look at her and continued to live in his daydream.

"You're helpless!" Iuria repeated the phrase that she always used in regard to her elder. "You let the ideal moment slip away - now how are you to invite her to dinner?" Iuria already had the evening planned for the two, but her brother made it far more difficult than it should have been. Iuria put her hands onto her hips and stood on her tiptoes to try and move her point. Her brother simply turned away.

To her surprise, Canopus laughed in response. He jogged a few steps ahead of Iuria before the Songstress could move and jumped off the ramparts and into flight. Iuria resisted the urge to call down and follow him, but she rushed over to the side to see where he headed. Dame Ravness had made her way down and walked across the bridge into the city of Heim. Iuria watched in anticipation as Canopus and Ravness seemed to talk, but she was far too distant to make out any of the words or even facial expressions. The female Xenobian smiled as the two parted ways, each with a refreshed alacrity in their step.

Perhaps her brother did not need help after all.

Oh, why did she bother with such jests? Canopus would soon come to her room to seek aid as to which clothes were appropriate to wear for a formal dinner. Iuria turned away from the happy duo and rushed back into the castle halls with a smile almost as bright as her brother's. She needed to reach Canopus before that foul pervert Gildas did; the man would only set her brother up for failure - he was just as interested in the elder Winged's love life as Iuria was. As inexperienced as her brother was in the idea of "love," she knew it was still possible for her to twist their relationship into a tale worthy of the ages. Had any great stories been told of innocent, naïve lovers? Iuria mused on the subject as she walked quickly through the halls. It was not such a rare thing, so, if not, perhaps her brother's tale would be the first. Iuria already imagined the songs she would sing to the little red-headed children the two would sire. Perhaps a male and a female? No, no, they would have two little boys: one who shared their father's look and one who shared their mother's.

Caught up in her fantasies, the Songstress composed a new melody in her head, one worthy of her brother, as she walked through the busy halls of Heim's castle. The future sung brightly in her ears and she would be just the person to record it for the ages.


	20. Spirit: OeliasWarren

This story takes place some time after Episode 2 on the Neutral path and assumes Denam completed the Palace of the Dead before clearing the game. Denam played with the WORLD command and somehow Oelias and Warren can talk, which would be impossible in a normal Neutral-only playthrough. This isn't really a romantic pairing, more one of companionship, development, and understanding.

One of the biggest revelations in the game comes in 5F of 4N's Palace of the Dead, so if you've not done it, I'd highly suggest not reading this short dialogue.

_**Spirit**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Warren:<strong>_ "Is something the matter, young lady?"

_**Oelias: **_"No. . . All is well."

_**W:**_ "You are quite certain? You look lost and have been staring at me for the last hour."

_**O:**_"Yes." _[sigh] _"No."

_**W: **_"You contemplate every night in silence. It wouldn't have to do with what the Necromancer spoke of, would it?"

_**O: **_"No. No, I've come to terms with that. I am who I am, whether it be Amala or Oelias. I am simply me.

_**W:**_ "I am happy for you. But if not your identity, what ails you? Have you need of my knowledge?"

_**O: **_"You are skilled in many forms of magic, are you not, Sir Warren?"

_**W:**_ "So I've been told. Much of it comes from experience and age."

_**O:**_ "Then perhaps. . . What will happen when the magic that infuses my brother runs dry? Will he crumble to the ground, a partially decayed mass of flesh? What of his spirit? Will it be destroyed? Is he bound to wander aimlessly for all eternity?"

_**W:**_ "Have you thought, perhaps, that rest is what he wants? Surely you must understand the suffering he lives through each day?"

_**O: **_"Pain is the last thing I would wish upon Dievold. I do not wish him to leave because who can say if he will endure yet more agony upon his next death?"

_**W: **_"Release him; set him free from his bonds. It is what he wishes."

_**O:**_ "Can I? It's selfish of me, perhaps, but don't know what to do without him. Dievold keeps me grounded."

_**W:**_ "You will find a way."

_**O:**_ "And if I don't?"

_**W:**_ "What of it? Surely you would never consider falling into the abyss of death? You are much too strong for that, especially with all that was given for your continued existence. No, you most certainly will find a way, whether you want to or not."

. . .

_**O: **_"How long do I have left?"

_**W:**_ "I don't know."

_**O: **_"Surely you must! Will the spell on me, too, fade with my fa-Nybeth's death?"

_**W:**_ "I can not answer that question. All comes to an end at some point; it is simply a matter of sooner rather than later."

_**O:**_ "You say that with such apathy."

_**W:**_ "Not apathy, simple acceptance. What matters now is how you live with the remaining time you've left - be it a single year, or two score."

. . .

_**O:**_ "For all I claim to serve the Great Father, when it comes to finally journeying to his side, I find myself terrified."

_**W:**_ "Fear of death, and the unknown, is natural. None are free from it."

_**O: **_"And what of my spirit? Will the Great Father still accept it? My soul is twisted beyond all recognition, even from myself. I am doomed to be a roaming spirit for eternity."

_**W:**_ "Did you not, only moments ago, tell me you'd figured out who you are?"

_**O: **_"I have."

_**W: **_"It does not seem such to me, if you continue to worry about your soul."

_**O: **_". . ."

_**W:**_ "I do not claim to know the Great Father's mind, but you are not to be judged for another's sins. It was not you who killed your daughter. After all, does she still not live within you?"

_**O: **_"Cliché words, seer, but true ones nonetheless. But what if, at the death of my soul, Amala's comes back? What will she think? What will she feel? Will she remember all I've done? What if our souls have truly merged, rather than mine simply in my daughter's place?"

_**W: **_"You will deal with it as it comes, just as you must everything else in life. As you said, you are you. You should not fret over _'could have'_ and _'possibly be.'_"

_**O:**_ "That's certainly not heartening."

_**W:**_ "I am here to tell you the truth, even if unpleasant. What point in there in only speaking lies only to calm you? Delusion will not help you through your problems."

_**O:**_ "Then what would you have me do?"

_**W:**_ "Ah, there is our dilemma. You must simply accept what is impossible to change. We've all seen death, but few have experienced it for ourselves; think of yourself as lucky, my dear. You are proof that within death you can find happiness, and a new beginning, even if not quite in the way you imagined it."

_**O: **_"Wonderful. So now I've an afterlife like Dievold's to look towards."

_**W:**_ "Nonsense. Think on my words, Oelias. Whether you understand them now, or ten years from now, but only once you accept the truth to my words can you come to terms with yourself."

_**O:**_ ". . .You're remarkably idealistic, Sir Warren. I'm afraid I do not hold your strength. No, I do not wish to - with such knowledge comes a heavy burden."

. . .

. . .

. . .

_**O:**_ "You are right; I do not understand, perhaps even can not, yet. But thank you, nonetheless."

* * *

><p>Perhaps you've noticed recently my stories have been thematically titled about senses. Worry not, "Sound" is coming, but it's a very long Denam and Ozma story. As I've used a lot of those two recently, so I thought I'd write some less-used pairings and characters beforehand to give some more variety. All of my future longer stories seem to revolve around Denam, so I hope you're not sick of him yet.<p> 


	21. Snow  OlivyaDenam

Yes, another Denam story. But this one would not leave my mind, either. Think of this as my apology to Olivya fans for all of the abuse I've put her through. Yes, I know it's not the most original, but we can't be innovative all the time.

As the game never makes a firm date of how old Denam was when he left Heim, but Olivya obviously remembers and still has a scar from the time, I've attempted to write the young duo as if they were 5 or so, which would make Cerya 13. I've tried to balance "childlike" and "mature" for this story; it was quite the challenge!

**_Snow_**

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><p>"Denam! Denam! Wake up!"<p>

Young Denam Morne blinked slowly and murmured some unidentifiable phrase neither he nor the invader could understand. He turned curiously towards the voice, mind and body still weighed down by his sleep, his sight a blur of black, faint light, and blue as he sat up in his bed, head heavy. He yawned widely, but covered a small hand over his mouth like his Pa had taught him to do. As he slowly wakened, Denam realized the strange chill in the air. Denam's tiny guest room had little more than a bed, dresser, and a fireplace. Abuna Mrueva had been firm that he would not touch the fire at all if he was a good boy - and Denam was a very good boy - that usually kept his room warm on the cool night. At such a late hour, even the warm embers of his fireplace could not keep the chill permeated through the walls of the Phoraena household at bay.

"Denam!"

The voice called again. Denam, now more alert, looked over to his left and saw his friend, Olivya. She wasn't dour like his big sister, who spent much of her time with her nose in books, and would always take him outside to play – but Pa and Abuna Mrueva always told him it was not appropriate to play at night! Pa was away for the seven-day, on a "job" that he never quite understood, but nodded about anyway as to look like he understood what the adults spoke of. Perhaps Olivya sought to get into trouble with him gone? Denam did not wish to upset his elders, even for the young girl who was his companion and friend.

"Olivya! 'tis night. You're not to be here." Denam scolded her and slid from his bed. Olivya stood a few paces away, with an oversized candle in her hands. Other than the fireplace, it was the only light source in the room, as the moon seemed shy and did not wish to show itself. Without his large blanket, the chill of the air almost overwhelmed him; he shivered and was tempted to go right back under the covers.

"Sister said 'twas fine. Come on!" Olivya took Denam by the hand before he could crawl back into the safety and comfort of his warm bed and pulled him through the deathly silent halls of the Phoraena manor. Denam and Olivya often wandered the halls in the dark of night in search of ghosts or other strange creatures, but they'd never found anything of interest. Instead, it had only earned them both a scolding when they had been found by Olivya's parents. The duo tiptoed through the dark halls; Olivya did her best to hide the bright light of the candle flame, but all it served to do was lengthen their shadows in the silent hallway. Denam held his breath as he walked by the rooms that he knew held Sherri and the Phoraena parents who watched him as his Pa was gone; were they alerted, both Olivya and Denam were sure to be kept in their rooms without playtime on the morrow and instead would be forced to study their letters.

The air in the manor was cool enough that each time Denam breathed, shaky, nervous breaths, he felt a spike of pain in his chest. The fire inside the food and story rooms had been put out, so there was little warmth. He wished he had brought the blanket with him, for his thin pajama pants and top were not nearly enough to keep the small invasive bumps from their spread over his arms and body. The stone floor was equally cool on his feet and he found he lifted his them up over and over again to keep the painful coolness away. His shoes were near the entrance to the house, as Lady Phoraena did not permit any dirt on her floor, so his feet would remain cold until he found one of their large, furry rugs to stand on. Denam looked down and saw Olivya wore some fine slippers meant for a walk around the house at night; Denam had no such items, they were for girls, but he felt something his Pa called "jealousy" as he looked down on them, for she was obviously more comfortable than him.

Olivya stopped as she noticed Denam's uneven gait from the quick steps that kept his feet off the floor. After a moment, her gaze at Denam's uneven, rapid steps turned to something akin to disapproval - she looked much like an angry Cerya. Denam glanced at her curiously, but also with worry; the light of the candle illuminated both of their faces and allowed them to read each other in a way only two friends could - Olivya's frown turned into a smile as she held out the candle. "Hold this." Denam looked at the object with worry; his Pa had told him he was never to touch candles because they were dangerous and would hurt him, but Olivya seemed to have no problem with the object so certainly it could not be _that_ bad, could it? Denam grasped both of his hands around the candleholder with caution; it warmed his digits nicely against the chill air. Olivya leaned down and pulled off her left slipper. She tapped Denam's left foot. Denam continued to watch her and lifted his foot up precariously in response as Olivya put the pale blue slipper onto him. It was a bit small, but it was stretchy and quickly accommodated the slightly larger size of Denam's foot. It was warm, like Olivya; the shoe did not completely stop the floor's coolness, but it did enough that Denam was more comfortable than he had been previously. "Here, we'll share. One each!" Olivya looked up at him and giggled, to which Denam responded similarly.

"So that's where you two've been!" Their amusement was interrupted by the quiet, but very annoyed, voice of Cerya. Denam quickly handed the large candle back to Olivya, who now stood, and clutched his hands behind his back, as if he had never held it. Cerya slowly approached the duo, one hand on her hip, the other with a large torch that lit the room up entirely. She was tall and dressed in a long, thick coat that covered her from her neck to her feet. Did she have trousers underneath the coat? Catiua always said proper women did not wear trousers, but dresses. Cerya had that annoyed look on her face at the young duo's silence; Denam knew Cerya's frown to mean danger and immediately took initiative. He widened his eyes as large as he could and pursed his lips.

"Cerya! Ah. . ." Denam waved rapidly at her before he realized how he worded the introduction. Pa would disapprove. "Good evening, Miss Cerya" Denam was proud of himself for his fast and accurate correction. "I'm sleepy." He declared and, as he did so, a large yawn overwhelmed him and he covered his mouth. If what Olivya said was true, then it was Cerya who wanted to see them. Cerya was a nice girl, though Denam could not say he knew any girls who were _not_ nice, she should let Denam return to sleep where Olivya did not. Unfortunately, Cerya seemed to have other plans.

"You'll sleep more later! Now be silent, we do not want to wake anyone up." They were already down on the lower floor of the manor, would Olivya's parents really awaken from such a distance? "We're going outside." Cerya continued. Denam and Olivya gasped in unison and both looked towards the utterly dark window. Denam held back a shiver; it was his job to be brave, like the Knights in the adventure tales! There were foul things in the dark, like Ogres, that he had to protect Olivya from. Denam uncomfortably took a step back and grasped at Olivya's elbow in worry.

Olivya, too, seemed distressed at the idea. The manor's external torches had been extinguished for the evening and the only source of light they would have was the candle in the younger girl's hand and the larger torch in Cerya's. Cerya's torch burned brightly and loudly, a familiar crackle that reminded him of the fireplace, as if it was one to use in the rain. Denam had been told with great firmness that he was never, ever to touch one of those torches and he desperately wondered why. He mused on the idea for a moment before he turned his attention back to Olivya, who spoke with as much determination as she could muster: "But 'tis night. What of the Ogres?" Denam nodded in agreement with Olivya's fears.

Cerya giggled and shook her head. "We needn't worry about them tonight, Olivya - the fairies are out." Denam's eyes widened and as he looked over to Olivya; he could tell she was equally shocked. The bright candlelight showed she was intensely curious and wanted to immediately follow Cerya out to meet the small creatures from the stories, but Denam did not agree. Denam remembered that Cerya had played a trick on the duo before when she had locked them into a closet - what if she wanted to do it again? What if, this time, she wanted to feed Olivya and he to whatever infernal creatures roamed in the darkness? Denam did not wish to be eaten, he was a good boy! He made a small, unintentional whimper of fear.

"Faries?" Contrary to Denam's terror, Olivya only felt excitement. Olivya handed Denam the candle so quickly that he almost dropped it as she clapped her hands in glee. Denam immediately forced it back into her hands as if it were a snake; Olivya knew Denam was not to touch the candles and gave him a sheepish look in return. Denam had no interest in such girly things as Fairies; he wanted to see a dragon! But still. . .the Fairies seemed to make Olivya happy, and apparently they were very strong, if Sherri's stories were to be believed. Denam grudgingly nodded to Cerya, still worried. If Cerya was to play a trick on Olivya, he had to be there with her to save her.

"Indeed, but if you're loud you will scare them away, so you must be absolutely silent." Olivya and Denam glanced at each other, Olivya with excitement and Denam with a fear he tried to hide. Both closed their mouths in obedience; they had been so excited to speak with Cerya that they forgot they might wake the Phoraena parents, but now, the Fairies! Satisfied, Cerya nodded and turned away, with a quick motion for them to follow. Denam and Olivya remained silent and did as they were told, but Olivya quickly ran over to the table and put the candle atop of it, as Cerya's was much brighter and the smaller one was unnecessary. Denam almost went to pick it up, to keep the demons at bay, but chose against it and instead chose to blow the flame out. What it he dropped it? What if he was caught with it? He would already be in enough trouble if he was caught outside with Cerya and Olivya.

Cerya led the duo to the large door and pushed them open with all of her weight. Denam worried the flame of the torch would start the door, or her hair, on fire, but she was able to keep it out of the way. As the door slowly slid open, Denam and Olivya both covered their chest with their arms to protect themselves from the cool gust of wind that blew in, far more chill than any of the air in the manor. The wind was surprisingly silent, unlike all of Sherri's stories where the wind held inhuman howls if you opened the door at night. Though Denam could only see what Cerya's torch illuminated, he could tell the ground outside was dark and wet, as some of the moisture had seeped under the door. He did not hear any rain, or any laughter from the Fairies like he would have expected, but he slowly approached the exit, as quietly as he could. Like his Pa had taught him, he let Olivya walk through the door first. Denam quickly followed behind her, worried that Cerya might close the door behind them and lock them outside. His fears were unfounded, as Cerya followed them both; Denam shook at the cool temperature and his right, non-slippered, foot was frozen on the ground, so he stood as high on his tiptoes as he could to avoid the chill. He stayed near to Cerya and in the bright torchlight. The elder girl dragged a large stool over to the pillars near the door and lifted the torch to the larger, external torches that were on each side of the door. With the fire now bright and from multiple sources, Denam felt a bit of his fear erode, as the creatures of the night would have to stay away. He could not see any shiny eyes out in the dark of the courtyard, but that did not mean they were not there.

Cerya continued to light the torches along the pillars and wall near the entrance, one. . .two. . .three. . .four. . .five in total. He could see well, and as the light became brighter, he saw odd. . .things float down from the sky. He could not hear them, but he immediately pointed at them to Olivya, who was huddled close to Denam to keep warm. They seemed to land on the ground, which, Denam gasped, was white! Olivya, too, was shocked and they glanced at each other and back at the strange white groundcover. Denam grasped her hand, not sure whether to be afraid or excited. Certainly the light would keep them safe, he told himself, there was no need for fear.

Cool weather or no, Denam slowly led Olivya out into the land of Fairies. Denam had never heard that Fairies turned the ground white, but it was not his place to question the magical creatures. Olivya stayed close, her hand warm in his. He could hear her shaky breath and he grasped her hand in order to give her strength. She wanted to see the Fairies, and Denam would make sure she saw them. He cautiously took a step into the white powder and almost reeled back. It was freezing! And wet! And soft! He put his weight onto the slippered foot and looked up at the odd white Fairies. They floated about around him in the air and landed all on him. Denam gasped when one handed on his cheek and he barely felt it at all. When he put his hand up, he was shocked to learn the Fairy turned to water. Olivya released his hand gently, more confident than a moment before, and began to giggle and run around as she, too, saw the creatures would not hurt her. The Fairies seemed quite fond of his friend and played around her arms, hands, and hair. She danced around in the faint light and she looked almost like what Pa described as a Nymph. Denam smiled and put his arm out into the white, his fear gone. He barely even felt any of the coolness on him, too distracted by the new phenomenon to care about it. The Fairies rarely landed on his hand, but he saw them land all over his arms. When he put his hand on the top of his head he could feel a few drops of wetness from them as well. But why would the Fairies be wet? Were they sad? Did they cry? Denam did not understand. Perhaps they were shy?

Bored with the Fairies, they were not nearly so interesting as the legends spoke, Denam took a step forward into the dark. Maybe Ogres would prove to amuse him more? They couldn't enter the light, his Pa had said, so as long as he ran back into the torchlight he would be safe from them. His heart beat quickly and he shook from more than the cold, which returned as he became less distracted. His breaths came quietly from his lips as he took another step away from the torchlight. He listened to the world around him, the only sound were the soft padded steps of Olivya's feet and her giggles of happiness. There were no shiny golden or red eyes with sharp teeth that waited for him in the dark. Emboldened, Denam took another step. He felt like a knight who ventured into a dark cave to find and slay the dragon and win the fair maiden's heart. Denam took two more steps, more quickly than the first hesitant few; his pajama bottoms were soaked, but he didn't care. The Ogres could not harm him!

"Denam, where are you going?" A loud, girly voice sounded from behind him. Denam jumped in fear and fled backwards into the protective light. Denam was shocked when he saw more than Cerya and Olivya were outside, but also Sherri, Cistina, and the Phoraena parents with them. Cistina looked just as curious at the white objects as Olivya was, but she had larger, thicker boots and a long coat on compared with Denam and Olivya's single slipper and thin pajamas. Sherri seemed to like the little white creatures and she looked up to the sky with a smile, but she paid more heed to Denam; she had been the one who had called him back. Denam lowered his head as he realized he and Olivya had been caught and walked over to Sherri in shame. Abuna Mrueva and Lady Phoraena seemed amused and chuckled at Denam's submission to Sherri. The elder girl covered him with a large, warm blanket. Denam hadn't realized how cold he was, or that he shivered violently, until Sherri grasped him in a hug. Olivya, too, was by Denam's side, and was given a large blanket by Cerya. Cistina was nowhere near as cold as the younger pair and she continued to play with the Fairies. The Fairies seemed to like Cistina almost as much as Olivya, but unlike Olivya, whom the Fairies danced around, they landed mostly on Cistina like they had with Denam.

Sherri lightly tugged at Denam and he followed without thought. Denam looked through the windows into the house and realized that it seemed the entire family had woken up and had lit the candles. As Denam and Sherri re-entered the manor, Denam saw that the servants had started a fire in the story room, where Catiua awaited him. She had a firm look on her features and Denam looked away; he knew he was to get a lecture about his inappropriate actions, and he deserved it, but was surprised when not a word came from Catiua's mouth. He looked up to Sherri, who still held an arm around him, and saw it was her glare that silenced the younger girl. Sherri led him over to the new fire and sat him down in front of it. The fire had not yet warmed the room, but Denam stayed close, closer than was safe. With a light kiss to his forehead and a kind farewell, Sherri left him to warm himself before she ran back out into Fairyland with Cistina. It was little more than a minute before Olivya and Cerya followed Sherri and Denam into the house. Denam was shocked to see Olivya look so pale and frail; she shook as badly as Denam from the cool weather, but she had a bright smile on her face. Denam returned the smile as Olivya sat next to him as Cerya bid her to do. Catiua, seemingly "jealous," sat to Denam's left possessively and grasped his left hand in hers. Denam lightly grasped Olivya left hand, so that both of his hands were held by his friend and his sister and leaned into the fireplace for warmth. After a moment, Olivya quietly removed her hand from his and instead leaned her head into the warm, thick blanket on Denam's lap. Denam smiled at Catiua, who returned the look and mussed his hair, much like Pa did. He was exhausted.

His desire for adventure sated, and his fears conquered, Denam mimicked Olivya's action and leaned his head into his sister's lap. He was asleep almost as soon as Catiua's hand started its gentle stroke in his hair.


	22. Responsibility: JuenanSherri

This story is at the request of a reviewer, who asked for a SherriJuenan. It's not as Juenan-focused as likely would have preferred by the one who requested the story, for that I apologize, but I had a huge amount of trouble getting this down. I went through three separate drafts and storylines before I finally came up with this (in my opinion, rather lackluster) piece. There's not a lot of romance here, as my main goal was to pull the parallels of Sherri's and Juenan's conflicts together.

I worry that _Responsibility_ comes off as a bit preachy and, dare I say, somewhat feminist, but I think the differences between, cultures, reality, and the TO universe when it comes to women and their position in society should be acknowledged. The closest we get is some sexist comments directed towards Ozma which barely scratch the surface.

_**Responsibility**_

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><p>Tynemouth Hill bustled with activity as Denam called camp to be built for the evening. The hide and cloth tents were pitched with practiced efficiency and thick sleeprolls were spread along the edges of the hill; though the entire force of the Resistance was not at Tynemouth, the army was very large and spread as far as Sherri could see, the people not quite small specks in the distance, but she could barely make out more than the bulky armor, arms, and legs of each soldier. It was not yet dark, but the sun turned the sky orange against the backdrop of the dark forms, and each person appeared as little more than a shade. The pale tents, some of which had a glow from the light of nearby, recently-lit fires, contrasted against the flowing green hills that made up Tynemouth. There was a warm breeze, one that blew the tall, weeds, and flowers against the Witch's legs from her position atop a hill some distance from the main force. The scene of the smoke from the camps merged with the smell of fresh, wet dirt and pollen from the plants at her feet to create a sweet, yet ultimately unpleasant, smell that reminded her of a badly-made imported potpourri.<p>

The wind blew through Sherri's hair and cloak, but she ignored it as she looked around at the world beyond Denam's camp, which had been what her life revolved around for much of the last Scales since she joined Denam along with her father and sister. There seemed to be no monsters nearby and everyone was too busy to notice she was gone, so the woman had time to herself. Sherri breathed in deeply, sure to ignore the intense aroma of the earth around her, and kneeled on the ground. The soft, rich soil gave easily under the weight of her knees, but she did not particularly care about the mess of brown that she knew would stain her skin when she stood. If she would get into battle, as Denam predicted they would, she would be even dirtier; it was often a waste to attempt to keep clean unless she was in one of the neutral or allied Castles. Though Denam hopes to reach Phidoch on the morrow, bandits, stray creatures, ghosts, and other rebels often stood in the army's way and she would likely have some battle to fight and she cared little about her cleanliness when she would only end up dirtier if she made an attempt to do so. The plants made a soft crinkle as she sat down completely on the curved hilltop and the harsh smell of pollen became even thicker in her nose and overwhelmed all other smells in the vicinity; she resisted the urge to sneeze and she looked into the sky, arms behind her as she leaned back, head on the ground. The orange sky bled into a deep red; it was still light enough that she could see with no trouble, but dark enough that she knew she would not have much time to herself. The plants tickled her cheeks as they swayed in the wind; her hair, pulled back as it was, did not protect her from their touch and the lounged position served to annoy more than relax her.

It was childish, Sherri knew, but she was uncomfortable in Denam's army. It was not the hostile looks she received - she could tolerate those, nor was it the looks of desire from the more base commoners due to her manner of dress, that made Sherri squirm when under the constant scrutiny in the dense crowd of soldiers. For so long Sherri had been filled with hate and spite, had lived only for the memory of what she had lost, that it felt _wrong _to live any way otherwise. To be happy, to smile, almost felt as if she had somehow forsaken the memory of her mother, just as she had abandoned her sisters. Olivya reassured Sherri constantly that they did not _know _the two were dead and that they shouldn't give up hope. Sherri sighed, the plants beside her moved along with her breath and pressed in over her face almost protectively, and pinched the base of a nearby flower as she picked it from the ground. Water flowed from the plant's now-stubbed end onto her fingers, but she ignored it and twirled the small yellow plant around. It didn't smell pleasant when Sherri brought it to her nose, only a faint and sweet scent that marked it as no proper flower used for fragrances, but she did not care. The small object distracted her and, more importantly, reminded her of her mother. The Lady Phoraena had been more than Sherri's mother, she had been her idol and, when she was young, she had wanted to grow to be just like her. As she had matured, however, the painful truth emerged that she was far more her father's daughter than her mother's. Where her mother was elegant and kind, Sherri was vengeful and forceful, unable to accept the view of others at times. Her mother's lessons had been about kindness and to support their family, yet Sherri had abandoned her kin, turned her back on the very morals she had been raised upon when she fled to Brantyn, and even raised her hand against her sisters and her father. She had done exactly what she had cursed her father for, but where he had abandoned Sherri and her sisters for power, Sherri had done so out of hatred and vengeance.

Sherri tossed the flower onto the ground to her side, the small thing floated in the wind for a moment and quickly left her line of sight, never to be thought of again. The Witch was disgusted with herself; her bouts of self-pity always happened at night. Sherri hid her fears in the day, to make Olivya happy. She could not show her younger sister her pain, for Olivya would fuss constantly in distraction and could be harmed - it had happened on more than one occasion in battle. The youngest Phoraena cared about others far more than she did herself, so Sherri kept to herself, away from Olivya, Denam, her father, and the memories they brought forth, both recent and old. When Sherri closed her eyes, she saw the desperate look of Olivya, who held her desperate tears within as Sherri threatened Denam with all that remained of her strength and determination. Then she saw the past: her father, as broken and helpless as Sherri was when she had been found in Balmamusa, the two stubborn Phoraenas had screamed to the point where their voices broke and Sherri had turned her back on the man she had once believed ruined her life. Her stomach felt ill as the memories came, unbidden, to her no matter how she tried to force them away. She remembered the warm feel of Brantyn's hand in hers as he accepted her pledge of loyalty and the way his eyes had roamed over her, as if she were an item won from her father, rather than a woman with her own mind, will, and dreams. Or perhaps the foul man thought that an oath of loyalty made her an object to take whenever he desired; Sherri would not have been surprised if Brantyn was so crude.

The Phoraena woman forced her eyes open, away from her father's anger, away from Denam's sadness, away from Brantyn's lust. She was dizzy and felt like she wanted to throw up, the grass that rolled in the win beside her only made the nausea worse. Her mistakes were a constant plague and they tore her apart from the inside to the point where it was not only her mind that reacted, but her physical body. Sherri almost instinctively curled up in the plants, eyes pressed closed and arms curled around herself, as if they would serve to protect her from her sins. The smell of the moist earth enveloped her; it took her mind off of the flowers, the latter of which only brought upon images of her family. She did not particularly care about her cleanliness as she focused on calm, pleasant thoughts that soothed the pain away, even if only for a time. It was escapism, the Witch knew, to continually flee from her fears; Sherri would continue to suffer as long as she avoided the thoughts. No matter what she said to her sister, she could not forgive her father so easily. No – she hated herself more than she hated her father.

Sherri barely heard the footsteps that approached as she sat up from her fetal position and pushed herself off the ground. She wiped her camisole off and brushed her fingers through her hair to get the small pieces of plants and twigs off of her. What she heard first was the sound of armor; the footsteps were light enough, well practiced and confident, but it was the armor that gave the intruder away. Sherri pushed herself off the weeds as the form came closer; she knew she should be on guard, wary, and should channel her magic, but lacked the will to do so, even for her own protection. She was exhausted; Sherri finished her rather pathetic attempt to clean her clothes, she did not bother with the dirt on her knees and elbows, before she pasted a smile on her features and turned, hands grasped in front of her. She knew the man - but not really. What was his name? Sherri could barely recall, she most pointedly remembered him as Galgastani, which was obvious from his style of armor and his appearance. His hair was oily and in a state of further disarray than hers was. The man did not stop before her, as she expected, instead he walked past her to look down the hill at the army Sherri had fled away from temporarily. The silence was thick between them and Sherri resisted the urge to fidget. She did not trust the man nearly enough to turn her back to him, as he did to her. How odd it was - they risked their lived every day for a shared cause, but they had spoken little more than a word to each other. He probably did not know her name, only by reputation, just as she knew him. She had heard that in Denam, he had found a similar, kindred spirit. But what had that meant? Olivya said that it had to do with the way they approached war, massacres, and what they had learned from it, but she had been able to glean little else from her tight-lipped sister. None seemed to want to talk about either subject and Sherri knew better than to pry. She was not a curious woman by any means, that trait was best left to Cistina, and kept to herself. Yet there she was, a member of an army that attempted to unite Valeria and all Sherri could think about was the obvious difference in their Clans, and of how obvious it was the man before her was not Bakram. Sherri did not fight for the same reason Denam and Olivya did, but she could respect their desire for unity and would attempt to get over the grudges that had been instilled into her in recent years from culture. It was the least she could do for her mother.

". . .Hello." Sherri tried. It came off as harsh and apathetic. She had never hid her emotions well, much of the time because she didn't care to, and the rest of the time because she was not practiced enough in the art of the noble's games to do so. The man did not turn, but his reply was warm, if a bit distracted.

"Good day, Lady Phoraena." His gaze continued to search the camp, but Sherri did not know what the strange man sought. She attempted to follow the tilt of his head and the direction of his eyes as best she could from her position behind him, but it was a pointless struggle as she could tell little more than the general direction of his stare. His tone was just as apathetic as hers, but, unlike Sherri, it seemed he recognized her. She felt a small wave of embarrassment at her uncertainty and could not hide it from her features, and thanked Fortune that he did not turn to see her blush. He seemed just as engrossed in his thoughts as Sherri had been only moments before. Sherri's insecurity quickly turned to annoyance; he had no right to walk up and disturb her! It was true this was certainly not _her _hill, but neither of them would get their internal conflicts solved with the uncomfortable silence and tension between them. He should have turned when he saw the particular hilltop was taken and gone his own way; as he had forced his presence onto her, she would not back down.

"Please, just Sherri." She attempted to lighten her tone, but it came off as even more sardonic than her previous words. "I am no 'Lady' and you are no Knight to serve me." She laughed at herself, a sad sound. She might have been worthy of the title once, but it was not one she missed, or even wanted. To her surprise, the Galgastani laughed as well, but it seemed for an entirely different reason.

"A harsh woman. Juenan, if it pleases you." Unlike Sherri's tone, his voice held true amusement and a lack of annoyance, but still he did not turn away from the army and towards her. Whether it was from his ignorance to Sherri's attempt to ease the atmosphere or because he simply wished to be left alone, she did not know. If it was the latter, he would not have come into her space in the first place. Perhaps he wished for company? Or perhaps he thought Sherri was vulnerable to the wildlife of the hill? The last thought was almost offensive, Tynemouth's "monsters," if they could be called such, could be beaten to death by a child with a wooden sword. In a worst case scenario he simply wished to speak with Sherri, but did not know how to approach her. None of the options appealed to her, and she bit out an annoyed retort.

"Reality is not so kind that I should speak sweet, ostentatious lies to make you feel better." She sighed. Try as she might, she was not Olivya, nor could she pretend to be kind and accept those in need. Reality was a harsh mistress, one whose collar was firmly around Sherri's neck. "Do all Galgastani expect their women to be submissive and speak words the men wish to hear, or is it simply just you?"

The Knight laughed again, a rich sound that reminded her, oddly enough, of the feel of autumn, with its not-quite-chill breeze that was strong enough to carry the leaves but not enough to truly be called wind. The earthy feel of the hill and the calm air the man radiated reminded her as much of Tynemouth as the hill itself did. Juenan's reply was jovial and amused, quite the contradictory response from what she expected from her hostile words, it reminded her closer to a fresh green leaf in a stream in the spring than a crackle of one under her feet in autumn. He was a strange one. "Quite the opposite, I simply did not expect such words could come from a Bakram woman."

"What does that mean?" She felt her terseness fade into curiosity and she released her hands from their clenched position in front of her. She ran a hand almost lazily through her hair as the wind blew it across her face and Juenan finally turned to her. The frown on his features, and the constant wrinkle between his eyebrows that was caused by said frown, showed he hid troubles deep within him that he very rarely showed anyone. The tight expression was loosened as he smiled and ran a hand through his hair in response to the wind, an unconscious mimicry of Sherri's actions. Sherri had not seen the man for more than a few moments at a time before this, but the Witch could tell by the weight on his shoulders and the darkness in his eyes that he burdened him to no little end, but unlike Sherri, he was remarkably light-hearted. It was if he was at peace with himself; Sherri was envious, for though she knew little of the Galgastani, the man shared a similar look to the one Denam wore. Given that Olivya was always at Denam's side, and Sherri swore to protect her last sister, the elder had no issue extrapolating emotions and thoughts from the young leader's face. Given the similarity between the younger man and the elder, she could read the Galgastani with relative ease. This man, this knight, did not bother to hide his ills nearly so well as the young Denam, it was as if he wanted the world to see the sins he wore. Sherri did not have the courage to do similarly.

"You're quiet, controlled." The man's amusement faded from his words as he explained his comparison. "You've an air, like many of the noblewomen I've met, including your sister. I expected you to be as demure as she." Sherri was surprised that the knight paid so much attention to she and Olivya. Perhaps he had little else to do, or perhaps he did it out of what he felt to be a strange responsibility. Juenan continued. "But you're not like the other nobles. You remind me of an old friend, a woman far too willful for her own good." For a moment his gaze went blank and unreadable, as he closed his eyes, as if in peaceful remembrance. From his expression, Sherri could tell that it was not sadness he felt, nor regret, but loneliness, as he almost seemed wispy, like he could be knocked away with a strong gust of wind. Sherri withdrew and breathed inwards rapidly at the realization, but did not have time to contemplate the man more before he continued; the Dragoon did not bother to hide his pain. "She died because of it."

The Phoraena woman frowned and released a long breath. There were more parallels to Juenan's friend and Sherri than the man realized; had Olivya not been there, Sherri, too, would have suffered the unknown, yet obviously well-respected, woman's fate. Sherri felt a bit of discomfort well within her; though it was Juenan who had intruded on her private time, it was she who imposed upon he and his memories. "I admit I am unfamiliar with Galgastan's culture." She hesitated; Sherri remembered when her mother died, the memory a fresh wound yet again. It was then, too, that she realized how little she knew about Valerians, culture, politics, religion, and the world. She had wizened since her younger years as a child, but as she rejoined her sister, the Witch realized just how blind she was and just how little she knew. The cultures meshed, both unified and contradictory, and Sherri at times could not keep up. "Is my manner so odd, compared to your Galgastani women?" Sherri's discomfort faded and a rare smile, little more than the upturn of the corners of her lips, graced her. Juenan returned her smile and met her eyes. Sherri did not look away as he explained, genuinely curious about the Clan she knew so little about.

"Quite the opposite, you'd fit in well. Our women rule the household." Sherri was not sure whether to be surprised or horrified at the thought. In her family, her father had been the Patriarch; so obsessed with his position he had been that he tolerated little familial dissonance. Her mother had only smiled and taught Sherri and her sisters to be respectful and distant to the Church, their father, and their future husbands. When Sherri had joined the church, she had finally felt some sense of strength beyond the fate of many young Bakram women, who only sought to marry a rich noble and live happily and have servants wash and clean them, blind to the worries of the outside world. Sherri never wanted that, nor had Cerya, and both of the eldest sisters had in some sense rebelled from their father's stern hand and the future he had demanded of them. Olivya was the opposite of the elders, she had little a thought for herself and was the perfect bride for any worthy nobleman; Cistina had been almost as willful as Sherri herself, but also had Olivya's loyalty and devotion to their family and country. In that sense, Cistina took on the family's best traits. "Like our men, Galgastani women are outspoken and willing to fight for our Clan. They are not women to stand back at home and wait while others do the fighting for them." Sherri averted her eyes; Juenan had misjudged her. She was not nearly so good that she fought for others, or her family. No, she had done the opposite, she had fought for herself, and for revenge against the father she had so hated. Those Galgastani warriors were much better women than she. The Galgastani Dragoon continued, as if she had not turned away. "What makes you different, is your calmness."

Sherri could barely hold back her bitter laughter. How she wished he was correct in his character judgment! Juenan glanced at her with his own curiosity as he awaited a response. Both were more interested in their conversation than they were in their previous worries and for that, Sherri was thankful. To have her mind off her troubles and regrets was enough to thank the man for, even if it only brought her flaws out to surface. "You flatter me, Sir, but I think you're mistaken." Sherri shook her bangs away from her face, to keep her dark hair out of her eyes. "Your description of Galgastani women is odd to me. Bakram women are raised to be submissive to their husbands; if they do not become members of the church or military they are often married off to some lazy nobleman - women who are not sent to wed to further their bloodline may work for themselves as weavers, perhaps, or cooks." Sherri carefully hid her disdain. "When I rejected my father, I rejected my right as a Phoraena – furthered even by my father's exile from Heim." Though the Dragoon knew little of Sherri's past, Sherri had no issue in its elaboration. In some sense, though she had returned to her family, she would never truly forgive her father and she spoke in a spiteful revenge that she knew was inappropriate to feel. "As I said, I am no Lady, breeding or no. I am a common woman.." Sherri sighed, but finally met Juenan's eyes once again, her hands finally went back together in front of her waist, but she dug her nails into her skin as a distraction from her emotions.. "I find it odd that Galgastani are respected for what I was raised to accept as mundane, tedious work."

It was Juenan's turn to look away, though his expression was more one of disgust at her words. Sherri was surprised at his blatant dismissal as he turned away from her and walked past, down the hill where he came from. After a moment he finally spoke, a light annoyance hidden behind his calm words of wisdom. "Is it really mundane to care for yourself and your family? Would not that work be considered the most honorable of all?" His armored boots crunched against a twig as he stopped once again, now more than ten paces from her. He did not turn back as the cool wind blew between them, a cooler, lighter chill than the earlier warm, heavy autumn breeze.. "That is all we can do: protect those we love and those who need it most. There is nothing ordinary and dull in the desire to protect your kin; _that_ is Galgastani honor."

Sherri turned away from Juenan's footsteps as they faded in the distance. Though they had spoken little more than a few dozen words to each other, and she still did not understand his purpose, Sherri felt. . .relieved. The Witch meticulously peered over Denam's camp once more in search of Olivya, but was unable to find her in the dark and the bustle of the distant shades of the camp. The youngest Phoraena was so loyal to father and their name and was a woman who loved unconditionally; her dream was the restore her country and their family, a noble wish no matter the person. But, Sherri mused on Juenan's words as she sat back down on the damp hilltop, it was not those traits that made her a good woman. Sherri looked up from her search and into the sky, which quickly darkened from a yellow to crimson; the reflection of the light gave the long grasses on Tynemouth hill an almost golden glow, paired with the breeze over the fauna almost gave the appearance of long hair that flowed over the Hill. Olivya had protected Sherri; she had stopped Sherri's foolish, brash actions that likely would have killed her. Olivya had saved Sherri because she loved her and wanted no harm to come to her, even after years apart. Even after Sherri had raised her magic and weapon to her younger sister, Olivya had forgiven and accepted her instantly.

Olivya succeeded where Sherri failed. Where Olivya sought to protect her family, Sherri helped to break it apart. Sherri understood: her biggest mistake was not that she allowed her sisters to die and her family to be torn apart, rather that she had turned away and had not fought desperately to bring them back together.

There were times when Sherri realized just how much of a child she truly was. Only a few moments before the Witch had wondered what she could do to atone for her mistakes against her mother and her sisters, but she now realized the answer was simple: it was impossible. It was so obvious and she wondered how it eluded her for such a time; she could not change the decisions of the past, but she could create a new future, where the past did not matter- a future with her family that did not revolve around hate and loss, of mistakes and pain. History was not to be ignored, but it did not determine the future. Her past actions could not influence her present goals, ones she did not share with Olivya. It was never about her; Sherri did not care to bring her family to power, she did not care for a position in a Church she did not follow or believe in, she simply wanted happiness for those she loved.

Sometimes the most perceptible decisions are the most difficult to recognize.


	23. Red: HobyrimArycelle

This story takes place sometime post-3C, with no direct location or timeframe given other than after Olivya's recruitment. While this is primarily HobyrimArycelle, expect mention of Ozma, as you can't have the PSP-version Hobyrim without Ozma. It's a bit on the short side, but I only just recently rediscovered my motivation.

Be warned that this was originally written in first-person present tense. While I've attempted to catch most of my errors in my edits, I know I've more than likely missed a few here and there. The style of the story was not meant for third-person past, its current form, so it might be a rather uncomfortable read.

_**Red**_

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><p>Once, when Hobyrim subtly inquired about it, he was told Arycelle's hair was red. The Lodissian ran his fingers through the long tendrils of the young woman beside him in response to the odd memory. He leaned over her as slowly as he could to find a more comfortable position, but as he did so his hair, too, fell to the side and merged with hers; it took a moment for the man to untangle his fingers from between the strands, but he was in no rush and simply enjoyed the sense that enveloped his hands. Though she had bathed only hours before, Arycelle's hair no longer smelled of the flowery wash she was so fond of - and instead of him. The strands were smooth and the hair at the base of her scalp was still very slightly damp, but Hobyrim was unsure if 'twas from sweat or her bath. The hair separated easily between his fingers before it fell away onto the bed, much like sand in seawater. Hair was the Walister's only feminine trait, besides the more obvious anatomical differences between a man and woman, and Hobyrim vividly remembered how it amused him when he learned she favored a soap that smelled of a vibrant field in the midst of Spring, as it had seemed so out off place on her. It was one of the oddities that reminded him that Arycelle was still a person behind the unflinching mask of determination she wore and that she was still a woman, no matter how much she acted otherwise. The body beside him remained undisturbed by his touch, Hobyrim intended for it to stay that way, as he ran his hand along her curves as softly as he could until he found her arm and grasped the warm hand at the end.<p>

Her hands were rough. There was little pleasure gained beyond companionship that Hobyrim gained from touch to her hands, as they were unpleasant and calloused, where Ozma's were smooth. There was none of the softness that came with use of fine skin salts or expensive soaps daily, or from the upbringing that allowed for no hard labor. Arycelle's hands were worn, even compared to his own, which were damaged from this hilt of his blade, and her fingers rough, possibly even scarred from countless prolonged bloody battles where her skin was no longer able to resist the pull of the bow's twine and instead tore through her flesh as easily as her arrows did to enemies. Where Ozma's hands only showed wear when she used a blade for a prolonged period, Hobyrim could not imagine a time when the hands of the young woman beside him were soft and delicate, unmarred. It should not have surprised him, but the first time he stroked the flesh of her legs, her stomach, her breasts, it was soft, silky, and flawless. She was an Archer, not meant to see direct confrontation. The young woman physically lacked the scars commonly encountered on a Swordsman or Knight, and yet no matter how untouched her body was by sword and dagger, the coarseness spread far beyond her hands.

She was a hard woman, her actions blunt. There was no delicacy in her, no minced words, or elegance. Though he could not see her stride, he knew her footsteps were heavy, when she sat it was always forcefully, and she ate quickly with no time for a pleasant conversation that usually occurred during Lodissian meals. Every night she finished with her supper well before he was even halfway to completion. The young woman feigned patience when she shared the table with him and instead chatted about pointless current events, battle strategies, and of how she worried – she was not interested in the countless rumors that pervaded the country, nor did she gossip like Ozma was prone to. Therein lay another difference between the two women closest in his heart: where Ozma kept herself hidden behind the facade of nobility, determination, and strength, Arycelle did not bother to hide herself or her opinions. She cared little that her words offended, that her thoughts may be politically unpopular. She did not care that her anger and her fragility remain unhidden - what weaknesses she had were equally outshone by her strength and brash determination. She was easily angered, and allowed herself to be overwhelmed by her emotions, a trait that Hobyrim both appreciated and loathed. He always smiled at her honesty, but internally Hobyrim worried the Walister woman's irrationality would be the death of her. Hobyrim was drawn back to a more recent memory - the battle for Phidoch. Ozma did not recognize him, just as he wished, but Hobyrim knew her immediately, even without his sight. Despite their six years apart, her voice, her use of magic, even the way she walked, were all familiar and ingrained within him. She was armored, but her steps were the same as they always had been. She screamed with desperate rage as Oz was killed before her eyes. At the time, she cared little for her life, or even of Lodis, and simply wanted her brother back. Hobyrim did his best to make her see her foolishness as subtly as he could without revealing himself, but it was to no avail. Hobyrim had been able to do little but stand to the side as his former lover's life slipped away, alone. The pain tore him apart almost as much as the betrayal of his brother had. Emotion could both save lives and end them; neither Arycelle nor Ozma knew where they needed to draw the line to save themselves.

When Hobyrim compared the two, at first glance it was easy to call Ozma the woman and Arycelle the girl, but there was as much truth to that as if he was to declare the night's sky was the same color as the day's. To call Arycelle a girl because she lacked grace was a crime unto femininity itself; Arycelle was strong and independent, a passionate leader favored by the lower class. She did not show weakness in front of others, even when Hobyrim knew her hands were torn ragged and bloody from her bowstring and she could barely hold a dagger to protect herself. To any man, it might be odd to consider the traits he internally listed as feminine, but Hobyrim knew better. She never showed it, but Arycelle desperately worried for others and would protect them with her life - 'twas a subtle altruism that he still remembered receiving for the first time. It would be a stretch to call her "kind," for no woman who stole life on a daily basis could be considered such - no matter the reason, but to all those she cared for, there was no better person to have beside them. For Hobyrim, the statement remained doubly true; every day Arycelle stood watch over the battlefield and maimed those he could not. While a subtle part of him wished that the woman only watched and protected him as such, he knew she constantly examined on the battlefield from her perch. It was not only Hobyrim she guarded; her arrows flew into the attackers of any who sought to exploit weakness of Resistance members in either form or perception.

Where there were many differences between the women, there were even more similarities. Arycelle was focused; there were times when Hobyrim wondered if Arycelle was just as blind as he, for she saw only what she wished to see. She was angry and filled herself with hate - but it was that anger that allowed Arycelle to be the empathetic woman she was. More than anyone else she cared for the mistreatment of others and recognized means should come before ends. Other women were kinder, Olivya spent many a sleepless night as she healed others with all her power and Cistina spoke constantly of peace and pacifism, but none other than Arycelle _understood_ the loss of the average Resistance soldier, and the average citizen, faced. Yet more - she understood Hobyrim. One night, well before their relationship began, Hobyrim had asked Arycelle why she remained impassioned, even though both Ronwey and Balbatos were dead. Was not her journey complete? Her reply was simple: "I seek to prevent what happened to me from occurringagain, even I must kill to do so." There were many stories like hers - like his own - but it touched some part within him when he heard his own desires repeated back to him. He wanted to tell her that he understood her pain, her hate, her desire for vengeance, and, yet more, her desire for peace, but he could not. Instead he had simply nodded and spoke the words he wished would someday be said to him: "Then be strong." It was then that he first truly saw her. It was she who approached him again, two days later, and demanded to know why he took the risk in battle. Hobyrim did not even remember what the risk was all these Scales later, but the visit was forever embedded in his memory. She ranted for a time, furious that he was hurt. Hobyrim had admitted it was a stupid mistake internally, but refused to give the woman the satisfaction of knowing she was right and instead remained silent. After she finished, her breath released from her lungs in small gasps as he anger fades, she finally whispered "If you die, who will continue your journey?" Though she did not know Hobyrim's identity or goal at the time, she was able to piece together his purpose, to some extent, perhaps because their own paths were so similar. She was not so blind as the Lodissian initially believed - yet even long after he calmed her, Hobyrim still lectured Arycelle that she needed to learn some sense of moderation. It was her loyalty and passion that first attracted Hobyrim, and her devotion that kept him coming back.

It was not until later that Hobyrim wondered if he attracted himself to Arycelle intentionally. As he was broken, so was she. At first, it was less that they share goals – it had little to do with that at all and they rarely discussed it, even if Arycelle was one of the few who knew who he was and what he sought. Arycelle's loyalty, to her friends, family - she spoke constantly of her brother, and her constant scolding of him, only brought forth images and memories of Ozma. The Lodissian man did not know Arycelle's appearance beyond what he has been told and what she described, yet when he heard her voice, it was not she who spoke to him, but Ozma. The Walister's voice was a bit deeper than the Lodissian woman's, her accent different entirely, yet their words and stories were similar enough that he sometimes envisioned the twenty-year-old Ozma he once knew to be speaking. The image was not purposeful, but always occurred before he could push the memory away. Ozma was gone, as much a wisp as his Mother, yet he continued the comparisons, almost as if he desperately begged that her soul continued to exist, even if within another. Though it happened less as the two spent more time together, whenever Arycelle spoke, voice tinged with loathing, of Balmamusa, of her brother's slaughter, the memory of Phidoch burned within him. Arycelle's life, too, would have ended on the path of Ozma's if she continued her pursuit of hatred – but to Hobyrim's pleasure the inferno had dwindled to a more all-encompassing flame of warmth that was a desire to protect the entire island she called home, not just her people. Even though her journey for revenge was long over, Arycelle remained just as passionate about the fight to free Valeria as she was the fight to free the Walister. Ozma's, Arycelle's, and his own lives were built from the lives of those who fell before. The past could certainly not be ignored, but to let the hatred consume meant the end of their dreams. He wished to say that he could protect Arycelle from her fears, but it was enough to protect himself from his memories and pain, let alone someone else. Hobyrim was nothing if not honest – he could provide companionship and love, but he could not save Arycelle from herself.

Was it loneliness that drove him to her? He questioned himself often - and even Arycelle once confronted him about it. Was it regret, that he killed the only woman he cared for who was not his mother? Was it because, when with her, he was reminded of Ozma? Hobyrim could not deny that was how their relationship started. Even as they were naked beside each other he still mused on the two women's similarities and differences. But it was not because Arycelle reminded him of Ozma that he stayed with her - nor was it because she was _not_ Ozma, only similar, a simple affair to get over his pain.

". . .Hobyrim?" Arycelle's voice was groggy and slurred; she was not awake and likely only spoke out instinctively. Hobyrim felt her turn over in the bed beside him; she released his hand so that she could more easily encircle him with her arms. Hobyrim immediately missed the warmth Arycelle's rough hand provided, but allowed himself a small bit of pleasure as he pulled the sleepy woman close in its place. Her body immediately curled into his, her normal tension gone, replaced by peaceful sleep. Hobyrim continued the examination he began earlier, in his own way, with touch his guide.

To compare the two women was pointless. They were both rarities, jewels - Arycelle an unpolished diamond and Ozma one that shined brilliantly from years of precise cuts. But the comparisons ended there. He loved Arycelle for she was, not for who she could be. He loved that she did not bother with flattery, that she would tell him off when she believed him foolish, and that she still cried when upset. He particularly enjoyed the times when he lightly prodded her when she was angry. As her head fell into his chest and her breaths calmed into slumber once again, Hobyrim reached his answer, the same conclusion he came to every night when he questioned himself.

No, Arycelle was not Ozma and he would have it no other way.

* * *

><p>This almost makes me want to write a BalxephonArycelle.<p>

On that note, the omission of Leonar's relationship with Arycelle was intentional. I do not see her willing to discuss it. The two can't know everything about each other immediately, can they?


	24. Forbidden: OzmaDenamCerya

This short story is a light-AU that takes place in an odd mixture of 2C, 3C, and 4C, but primarily 3C. Things are. . .different than in canon.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+  
>Represents a short time skip, while the full break represents a scene shift.<p>

_**Forbidden**_ (Or "_Why is Denam such a pimp_?")

* * *

><p>Sticky.<p>

That was how Ozma Moh Glacius would describe the early mornings in Heim. The city was close enough to the sea that the salty dawn air was both humid and thick and, when one woke in the morn, it felt as if it was after a long march, sweat soaked and dirty. An exaggeration, perhaps, but the air in the Valerian isles was not near so crisp and clean as that of her native Galius. Dressed down in common clothing from her native land, a simple pale silken dress and unstyled hair, Ozma sat across the table from her rather unpleasant fiancé, Balxephon Von Rahms, who looked like he had he not even bothered to remove his robe from the previous night, let alone attempted to bring any order to his thick bed-tangled hair and unshaven beard.

Had it been anyone else, she would have been disgusted or simply mocked him for his inappropriate appearance, but Ozma appreciated that Balxephon showed her his more vulnerable side. He worked hard - too hard - and had no time for himself other than the short early-morning meals and rare excursions he took with Ozma. Their time together had become even more limited since their arrival on the Valerian Isles, where she was stationed at Heim and Balxephon at Phidoch. The two saw each other little more than once every three scales. Despite their distance, Balxephon was far from an unpleasant husband-to-be, as he did everything in his power to please Ozma and doted on her constantly. Ozma would smile in return, as her mother always taught her, but it never reached her eyes; she did not understand why he bothered to act such. More, she was not a woman to be won by frivolous gifts and words. Their marriage was a political union, both knew it, so why did he constantly feign it was not? Ozma more appreciated the smaller actions: that he did not hesitate to show his disheveled self, the small walks they took at sunrise, and the quiet dinners together. Ozma did her best to smile at Balxephon, who picked at his food as he went over Tartaros's reports, but the expression did not reach her eyes, nor was it even noticed by the busy man.

The smile dropped off her face almost instantly in annoyance. She respected Balxephon's devotion, but she did not like to be ignored, especially since 'twas he who demanded they break their fast together every day because they so rarely saw each other. If all Balxephon was to do was ignore her, she would much rather deal with her brother's foul mood swings than the tense air between she and the High Champion's Second. Ozma held back her glare and stared at her own food. She was hungry, but Balxephon's disinterest spread to her and she had little motivation to eat beyond the occasional fruit from atop her waffle. The sugary syrup was almost too much for her so early in the day, though in the back of her mind she knew Oz appreciated it.

"Balxephon. . ." Ozma tried lightly. He grunted, but did not look up from the parchment. Ozma poked a rogue strawberry on her plate and stuck it into her mouth as her glare darkened. She forced the dark look to subside and painted on a smile, as her mother had taught her. Always a smile, always a plot, that one. "Balxephon." Ozma spoke more firmly in a tone she used with her subordinates and brother. That got his attention, to Ozma's pleasure, but he seemed annoyed as he put his parchment to the side and took a bite of his meal.

"Ozma." he sighed between bites. He sounded more than tired, his tone held back exasperation and frustration. Loyal ally that Balxephon showed to Tartaros, in private he wore a weakness and annoyance he dared not show the High Champion. It was not that they disagreed - quite the opposite - and, as far as Ozma could tell Balxephon was honored by the trust given to him, but it ate away at him He snapped easily and rarely had time to do anything beyond what their mutual High Commander asked of him. Ozma did not envy him; it was enough that she was in Tartaros's trust - given how much he asked of her, she had no desire to be as close to he as Balxephon was. "I apologize, I do not mean to ignore you." Ozma smiled lightly and took another bite - the berries on Valeria were particularly delicious, she would have to have her mother import some. She forced her smile onto her features again and eased her body language in order to calm her fiancé. Her actions served their purpose and the man seemed to appreciate the gesture of support. "I'm right ready to tell the High Champion these Islands are more trouble than they're worth. Brantyn is impatient and we are no closer to our goal than we were when we first started."

Ozma said nothing in return, she simply offered him as sympathetic smile as she could muster. It was the same every day, differently worded, perhaps, but it felt as if they got nowhere. Brantyn kept Prancet Morne hidden from them and, though the war quickly escalated to the point where Loslorien would be needed, the Princess was nowhere to be found. Ozma heard this same tale every morning, and every hour of every day, she did not need to be reminded of it yet again. In an uncharacteristic bout of frustration, the woman placed her fork on the table beside her. It was abrupt, but as elegant as she could muster in her annoyance. She pushed her chair back forcefully in a loud move that would have horrified her mother as she stood while her fiancé still ate. Ozma's temper was quick to ignite and even quicker to fade, and both knew it. She did not move from the table, she had too much self-control for that, but she stared pointedly at Balxephon, who stared back at her with weary eyes.

"Enough, Balxephon. Let us walk, you've far too much on your mind and no time for yourself." her voice retained its hardness and though Balxephon looked ready to decline, he even shook his head lightly, he noted how Ozma's hands clenched the side of the table before he released a low, quiet sigh in submission before he, too, put his silverware on the plate and pushed his chair to stand. Ozma sat back down and gave him a light smile. "Groom yourself, then let us away, at least for a time." Balxephon did not bother to reply as he walked into his wash-room; if Ozma did not know better she would assume he moped. He did not bathe, simply brushed his hair and washed his face, so Ozma spent her small amount of time to herself with her food. She resisted the urge to peek at the parchments on the table; it was wrong of her to have the thought at all, but her curiosity and familiarity with getting what she wished made her wish she knew what distressed Balxephon so. Where Ozma constantly scolded her brother about his inappropriate words and mannerisms, it was he who scolded her about her continued desire to control every situation as best she could.

Balxephon finished his wash quickly. He did not opt to change his clothes for whatever reason, and Ozma firmly pushed down the urge to scold him for it. _You are not his mother_; her brother's voice rang in her head and she smiled as she cursed her brother for how well he knew her. Ozma made sure Balxephon knew of her disapproval as she stared at the informal robes with some distaste, but he ignored her, he was just as used to her dominant traits as her brother was, as he approached and offered his hand to hers. Ozma smiled and took it as she took, food forgotten by both of them. Her pale dress swirled around her as she walked over to the door beside her fiancée, pleased to finally have a day that was not monotonous and dull. The Templars slipped their respective shoes on, Balxephon's a thick, well worn pair of brown boots and Ozma's soft blue slippers that could not be used for anything more than a walk about the palace, as the material would shred otherwise.

"Where do you wish to go?" Ozma questioned lightly as they walked through the halls, which bustled with servants who did their best to avoid the duo of Lodissians. Most refused to even look upon them, and those that did turned their heads to the side, often with a frown of disgust. For all Brantyn welcomed them, the islanders were not fond of Loslorien; the feeling was mutual, Ozma cared as little for them as they cared for her. As they passed through the large, open Great Hall, Ozma looked through the windows and saw that dawn had passed and the sun continued to rise over the horizon. They day began just as any other did.

Balxephon was silent for a time and Ozma would have repeated her question had not he continued to guide her with his harm firmly around her waist. As they continued into the more populated regions of the Castle, there were more soldiers roused, many of whom seemed to break their fast, or had just finished doing so and they shuffled in and out of the dining halls. A few eyed Ozma curiously and their gaze traced her unfamiliar form before they recognized her. Ozma smiled to herself at their reaction of the young men, mostly in their late teens, who could not control their eyes as they roamed her body. Balxephon, too, noticed, and held her more closely. Ozma did not know whether to be pleased or offended; she had no interest in running off with the boys, but it also pleased her that he wanted her all to himself and showed such in public. The latter part did become an issue at times, Ozma could admit, as on multiple occasions it had caused an argument between her brother and her fiancé.

"The High Commander seeks to find those who are willing to support us if the situation need arise. Skilled soldiers, preferably, Sibyls, Knights, Archers, anything." Balxephon calmly explained as he led her about and they exited the castle. The outdoor area was not nearly as sticky as the thick indoor-castle air and there was a chill breeze that accompanied their exit. Ozma unintentionally drew closer to her warm, thickly-robed companion and his warmth, as her dress was of thin silk and not meant for such weather.

"So you wish to draw from who is already on the island instead of risk our own?" Ozma's reply was quiet and she understood her companion's purpose. She felt a brief flash of frustration and almost pulled her hand away, but caught herself before she made any brash move. Even as she tried to convince him to take time from his work he still continued only to think of it, even in their time together. She forced herself to calm. 'Twas simply a part of what made him Balxephon, his constant reliability and persistence and devotion. Ozma knew she should not be annoyed by his actions, as they were only proper, but she still felt no small sadness that he could not take a bit of time away from his work only to be with her.

"Yes. The Bakram have the primary Officer's Academy on Valeria and are generally the only ones formally trained. We are to look for exemplary examples and see if we can win their support." Balxephon did not need to lecture her, for all of that Ozma knew already, but he spoke only to fill the air between them. Ozma nodded and continued to remain close, in stride and in warmth, with her fiancé as they walked around the western side of the castle until they reached the training grounds. It was not uncommon to see Templars and Bakram alike practice during the day, Ozma herself often came to the fields, and the early morning was no exception. Balxephon guided Ozma and himself to a seat used for rest on the side of the fields where they could easily get a view of who was skilled and who was not. The field itself bustled with more activity than even the castle's Great Hall, as warriors of all types practiced within. On the far side, Archers practiced - Ozma admitted she was not so skilled at archery that she could tell from a distance who was superior - and Mages on another. The mages of Valeria were surprisingly adept; they used their power far differently than she had been taught, she might even call it clumsy or wasteful, but they were skilled and did their jobs well. If she could get herself a score or so of the Bakram Sorceresses and Wizards to personally train for a half-year she would have a dangerous force that easily matched her own Loslorien Templars. The largest area was devoted to melee of all types. It was the filthiest area, with the ground torn apart by heavy footsteps and mud, but it served its purpose; no one came to the training grounds to remain clean. There were no less than three Sibyls on the sides of the field who acted as healers to the soldiers who were injured. Ozma's clothing was in no way meant to walk around in such an area; her slippers alone would be dirtied beyond repair if she did.

Ozma examined the fields; they were chaotic and, unless she focused on one area in particular, it almost looked like a battlefield. It was not long before she noticed Balxephon did not do the same as she, instead his attention focused on one particular area. Ozma followed his gaze and saw a rather large group nearby. At the head of the group was a young man, Ozma would guess he was no older than twenty, who spoke with a heavy Bakram accent. His tone was firm, as if he fully expected them to listen and obey. He seemed to give some of the less experienced recruits advice, as he made them attack him, one after the other. He quite efficiently disarmed them and showed them exactly where their weaknesses were almost as soon as they made their move. He did not speak badly of those he defeated, and instead showed them how to avoid the mistakes a second time. He was a proper knight; Ozma approved. It seemed the Bakram had some decent Commanders after all.

"You wish for that one?" Ozma questioned her companion curiously. Balxephon kept his eyes on the young man, as if deep in thought.

"Hmm?" He finally responded as Ozma repeated her question with more force. "Oh, not at all." was his simple declaration. He turned his attention away from the field for a moment and onto Ozma. The Templar woman was surprised at the admission and more than a little agitated at the mixed signals he continued to send to her.

"What do you mean?" It was not quite a demand, but it was as close as she would get to it when in public. She kept her voice quiet so that she would not draw attention, but her words were obviously annoyed. "He is clearly the only skilled man on the field. Is that not what we are here for?"

Balxephon turned his attention back to the man in question and Ozma did the same. He continued his lessons, but he was firmer than before. His body language spoke of a light annoyance, but his tone was flat and apathetic. His control over his emotions was impressive. The flat look made some of the younger students nervous and a prolonged stare made them squirm. They listened intently to his orders and the young commander allowed himself to relax as they began their practice. It was not long before the small side area of the field was interrupted by his sharp tone again as he pointed out obvious flaws in form and stance. Ozma almost wished Oz was there with her, he would have been quite pleased. Oz constantly complained that formally trained soldiers shared the same weaknesses and strengths, so it was most easy to beat those with inexperience just out of the academy and exploit them. Apparently, the commander on the field felt the same way.

It was some time before Balxephon finally replied. "You're right, of course. But he's the only one we've not a chance with." Ozma made a curious sound, but continued to watch the scene with interest, her mind going back to her own strict lessons in swordplay. That was one of the areas Oz remained consistently superior in; despite her blood, Ozma received quite a bit of harsh criticism and withstood more than a few remarks about her gender. Even time and skill had not dulled the remarks toward her and even as she had matured, many youths consistently underestimated her because she was a woman; it was a blessing, of a sort. "That's Brantyn Morne's son, Denam."

_That_ caused Ozma to blink. "The Regent?" Regent Morne had a child? She could barely imagine that man with a woman, let alone. . .She let the thought fade away before her imagination got the better of her. Balxephon chuckled as he noticed Ozma's reaction; she was apparently easier to read than she thought.

Her fiancé continued. "Indeed. 'Twould not be a stretch to say the only reason the Bakram continue to support Brantyn is that man right there." Ozma frowned in confusion for a moment before she finally understood what Balxephon meant. When Brantyn had called for the assistance of Lodis, no matter the reason, his popularity suffered a sharp decrease. There would have been anger from the common man and even more from the nobility; with Brantyn's already tenuous hold over his position, he would have need of some way to quiet the dissent. It was a tactic Lodis commonly used, as well.

"I've not seen him before." Ozma murmured cautiously. She, Oz, and Volaq had remained stationed in Heim for longer than the other Commanders, where Barbas, Martym, Balxephon, and the High Commander remained in Phidoch of late. Andoras, who know where he went? He acted as one of their Shadows. Ozma often wondered if her continued presence in Heim was the result of Balxephon, who did not wish for her to see danger. Of course, Oz remained with her for she was the only could who could stop his tirades, but, more importantly, Oz and Balxephon could barely be in the same room alone for five minutes without quips thrown about.

"No doubt. Brantyn uses him to secure his position. As you would expect, he is sent to suppress dissent." It was Balxephon's turn to frown. "His methods are. . .abstract, but efficient. Rumor speaks that he is of Eltynaha blood." Ozma did not know what Balxephon meant by abstract, be it "Oz abstract" or something different all together. She supposed it did not matter - the latter comment was more important. If Ozma remembered correctly, the Eltynaha were the ones that truly held control of the Bakram, for Brantyn simply acted as Regent in their stead. If the boy had Eltynaha blood, it meant he was likely one who could truly take the throne if he truly wished to or had the backing to do so. He was dangerous and a threat to Loslorien if he ever chose to take advantage of it. Balxephon continued offhandedly as their attention went back to the field. "You were introduced to him the night of our welcoming fete. Don't you remember?" Ozma shook her head; there had been far too many people she was "introduced" to that night to care about one particular young man. She had been tired from her journey and, she admitted later, in a foul mood that likely alienated many. "Oz made that comment about how he was reminded of - "

Balxephon cut himself off as he realized his foolishness. Ozma's attention immediately turned back to the young dirty-blond man on the field, who seemed to be pleased with the improvements found in his troops. He less often had to interrupt them. As she watched, she remembered exactly what Oz had said that night, her brother's words a distant echo in her mind. It had been quiet, words meant for Balxephon and none else, but the loud enough that the High Commander and she could hear, even if the Lodissian woman had pretended she had not. _"That one there - he's just like Hobyrim."_ Oz had said, and while Balxephon had been quiet, Lanselot Tartaros had acquiesced. As Ozma watched the man, who seemed tired and worn beyond his years, as he approached the side of the training area, the words repeated themselves in her head. She saw it, Great Father, she saw it. The way he moved, his mannerisms, his smile - hidden behind firmness and duty but clearly there, his calmness that radiated to all around him, and the lack of knowledge that he had a presence at all. Everything, after each trait she repeated his name. _Hobyrim._ Ozma felt as if she fell back in the past to when she was little more than eighteen. It was impossible for them to be the same, of course, but now that she saw the comparison, she did not wish to ever let it go. "You plan to use him." Ozma finally whispered, so that Balxephon would not guess her thoughts.

Balxephon was obviously relieved at her change in subject. "Only if Brantyn continues to prove disagreeable." Ozma was still unable to take her eyes off the Commander on the field, who seemed to be done for a time. He approached the benches some distance from the two Templars and picked through a small satchel, which she assumed to contain his belongings. Balxephon lightly touched Ozma's leg in order to get her attention, but all it served to do was make her realize the young man finally noticed the two and had approached. It would have been rude for one of his position not to, as they were his father's "guests."

"Well met, Sir, Dame." His voice was like Hobyrim's, too. The accent was different, and his tone far softer than it had been earlier when firm on the field, but there was no doubt in her mind that if Spirits could transfer to another after death, her Hobyrim was in this young man. "Is there anything I may be of assistance with?" Ozma did not bother responding, she did not even know if she could move her lips if she wanted to.

Fortunately, Balxephon was just as skilled at political games as Ozma was. He matched the man - Denam, Balxephon had said - word for word, as if it was a verbal spar. There was no tenseness in the air, but Ozma could sense some danger and worry from Balxephon. She did not know what brought it on, perhaps the Islander reminded him, too, of Hobyrim? "Pleasant morning, Sir Morne. We do not mean to intrude, we simply wished to watch the practice. We've so little time to ourselves, as I'm quite sure you understand."

Denam's flat features did not break into the smile Balxephon no doubt expected, but they did lighten. It was not that he did not feel emotion, it was that he seemed a bit uncomfortable in its expression. He nodded, his eyes soft, until he looked in Ozma's direction. Ozma met his eyes immediately but then quickly turned away. She was horrified at her actions; she was like a small girl with a crush! Ozma scolded herself; she would be three decades soon, it was no time for her to act like she was barely over one. He spoke to her words just as professional as they had been to Balxephon.

"Dame? Are you well?" It was not that he cared; he simply acted as he was raised to: to be respectful and make sure his guests were acceptably comfortable. But Ozma still took the words and held them close within, as much as she knew she poisoned herself.

Ozma did not reply. It was too much. She cursed herself and her weakness - she was still a woman, no matter how much she wished to hide it. Her emotions would get the best of her this day. "Ozma?" Balxephon pushed lightly and took her hand. His voice was soft and worried; for some reason, Ozma felt her companion's tone difficult to trust.

Ozma stood immediately and pulled her hand away. "No - it's nothing. I apologize, I've a lot on my mind." Ozma spoke as quickly and clearly as she could. She was impressed with herself; as foolish as she appeared only moments before, her words came out confident and controlled. Mother's training sessions had ingrained themselves within her well.

The Knight Commander nodded to both men respectfully and fled as quickly as she could without seeming rude. She did not care that the muddy ground ruined her shoes or that it splattered along the lower hem of her dress, nor did she care about the odd looks she received from the servants in the hallway as she walked back to her room, her mind only on the young Commander. She could not face that man, for in him, she saw only what was gone forever.

* * *

><p>Perhaps he was ill.<p>

Denam Morne did little more than pick at his supper, appetite gone – or perhaps it had not been there in the first place. He had not eaten all day, yet he had no desire to. He simply stared at the fine meal on his plate, meats, vegetables, soup, all fine enough to befit one of his rank, and could barely lift the fork into his mouth. He released a despondent sigh.

"The war is over." Sherri's voice repeated over the small table in the silence of the night-darkened room. It was long past dusk as he and the Phoraena woman supped together. Denam barely looked up at the other woman as he took a sip of his wine, eyes downcast, before he finally scolded the woman, who was uncharacteristically optimistic and talkative. On any other day, Denam would have loved to have spoken with Sherri, but he was exhausted. He had only just returned from an assignment late the previous night and had roused early; he was on little sleep and it served only to make him unpleasant.

"Nonsense. The Galgastani won't give up until Xaebos Rosenbach's head is on a pike and marched through Coritanae in a grand parade. He will continue to slaughter the Walister until his last breath." Sherri frowned at him; he shook his head in anticipation of his friend's words, he did not need her lecture. These were not subjects one discussed over supper, he knew, but the two had so little time to speak with each other that they had to speak of dour events n times that were supposed to be for pleasure. Sherri was not particularly popular in Heim, given her father's previous occupation and the conflict with his own sire, but she had returned to serve the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom when it had been founded two years prior for the betterment is the country. Denam had pleaded with his father to allow Sherri, one of his guardians and mentors when he had been a child, to remain and finally the Regent had given in. Had Denam his way, Sherri would serve under him so that she would not encounter the hostility from others of rank, but both Sherri and his Father denied him. In turn, Sherri had quietly withdrawn into herself; she was lonely, rarely smiled, and Denam would have called her depressed had he not known that it was simply her nature to be distant. She was just as passionate as her sisters, but she did not show it. She let her actions speak for her - a lesson Denam learned well from her.

"Ronwey declares the war over. Rosenbach's head is as good as on the plate in front of him." To illustrate her point, Sherri stabbed at her steak with her fork and took a purposeful bite. Denam shook his head and resisted the urge to chuckle; the woman was so melodramatic at times. He slowly mimicked the action and forced the food through him. Lack of hunger or no, it was to his betterment to nourish himself. He compelled himself to chew the tasteless food and held back a cringe as he swallowed. It did not taste unpleasant, but Denam was in no mood to sit around and eat while the rest of his country was on the verge of war and death.

"And what then?" Denam took a long sip of his wine. It might well have been ale, for he did not bother to taste it. "Then" Denam spat out, barely able to contain his distaste - only around Sherri was he so open about his feelings "we are called to war at the border and yet more die. Ronwey will not bow to Father, especially with the Dark Knights circling above his head, vultures that they are."

Sherri examined Denam, her dark eyes unreadable. Denam ignored the look and took a sip of his soup. Her voice was the same quiet, calm tone it always was, yet her words carried an accusation. "It's unlike you to be so spiteful, Denam." It was true; Denam usually looked for the best in the situation and tried to not judge someone without knowledge of circumstances, yet 'twas he who was being the pessimist when Sherri was the optimist. Sherri and Denam's personalities seemed to have been reversed for the night. The thought amused him.

"You rub off on me." Denam bit a small carrot slice off the end of his fork.

"Perhaps." The duo met each other's eyes for the first time in the evening and smiled at one other. Both were not expressive by nature and that they would show such emotion admitted a subtle trust. Unfortunately for Denam, Sherri was never one to revel in the moment and her words shattered the calm mood as if it had never been there. "It will be slaughter."

Denam's smile fell immediately and he did not bother to bite back the harsh retort. "For which side? We desperately rely on the Lodissians in this game; without them, we are outnumbered ten to our one. Even though our soldiers have superior training, we've little chance with those numbers." Sherri looked away as Denam continued; it almost felt as a release, to get some of his troubles off his chest. "Worse yet, they've the advantage in terrain. An attack by land will be impossible, even if we've superior supplies. No, Sherri, I see no easy end to this conflict. The unity of the South brings only more death."

In order to distract himself from his anger, Denam suffered through his food as Sherri sat quietly across from him. The woman stared into nothing and let her fork fall onto the plate, upset by Denam's words. The commander knew Sherri meant well, and likely came to raise his spirits, but her words had backfired and only served to darken Denam's mood more. Denam focused his chews for more than five minutes as the tangible silence dragged on. Sherri's head became more and more downcast and her hair fell onto the table; Denam worried it might fall into her soup, but it felt not only odd for him to notice it at such an inappropriate time, but he had no idea how he would say it to her. The odd thought amused him as much as one could in his situation.

"You've won the hearts of our people, could you not do the same for the Walister?" Her voice was quiet and Denam felt almost as if she pleaded for him to do so. He released a quiet sigh as Sherri finished and looked up at him. Her face was expressionless and unreadable, as if she did not wish Denam to know her true thoughts. "Appeal to their better sense."

Denam's features were equally unreadable, his tone distant. If that was how she wished their conversation to be, it was not his place to deny her. Denam let his tone cool. "It would work on some, no doubt, but the majority would see it as simple arrogance. They would believe I manipulate them, and rightfully so. I am powerless; this is beyond any one man." Denam shook his head and pushed his bowl away. He could stomach no more food, even through will. Denam spoke more to himself than Sherri: "Even if Father and Ronwey can treat, will the commons agree to it?"

Sherri had no reply for him and again the two lapsed again into silence. Her head was raised, a good sign, and she continued to pick at her food. Denam took another sip of his drink. "That's what I'm here to speak of tonight." Denam was surprised; he had thought Sherri's news was all but depleted, but it seemed she still hid her intentions. Denam gave the Phoraena a curious look and allowed her to continue. Her voice was little more than a ragged and, to his surprise, angry whisper. "The Regent has asked me to find my father."

Denam almost dropped his goblet on the table at that. _Impossible._ What did his father want with Mreuva? Their conflict had been so powerful two years past that he assumed his sire would never wish to see the former-Archiereus again. Denam put the drink down before Sherri revealed any more surprises. Denam forced his shock out of his voice as he bit out "Mreuva? Why? He is a simple Abuna now."

Sherri's voice remained quiet, as if she whispered a terrible secret that none was to hear. She pressed her eyes closed as if she sought an internal strength. Denam furrowed his brows and struggled to even hear her light words. "He has. . .knowledge of powerful magic that can help us." Denam stared at Sherri, not particularly fond of her subtle, purposely vague wording. He could feel Sherri bend under his glare; he felt bad about his firmness, but if his elder would continue to tease him and be stubborn about something so important he would have to force it from her. His Father, too, had a bad tendency to hide much from him, but Denam had shadows of his own that allowed him a better view of the situation than his father knew. Sherri's voice was stronger when she finally continued, as if she found the strength she sought. "Magic that can prevent war just by its very presence." She seemed almost passionate and was no longer intimidated by Denam's glare.

". . ." Denam was struck silent, but kept his eyes on the Phoraena woman across from him. She sipped the rest of her soup from her bowl and pushed it away from her in similar manner to Denam. Did such magic exist? Should it even be used if it was so powerful? As if Sherri heard his thoughts, she continued. She was impassioned beyond anything that he had heard from her in recent years; it was as if she was a different person. Her newfound strength reminded him of Cerya; at times it was difficult to imagine they were sisters at all.

"It's the best way, don't you see?" She demanded of Denam - but she obviously expected no answer. "We will not use them unless we absolutely must. Even then, we will not use them on a populated area, only to show that we have the ability." She demanded again, as if she wanted Denam to find flaws in her argument: "If we must, we will force peace through fear. How many lives will we save in the process?"

She was right. Denam hated to admit it, but he saw some merit in her argument. The threat of such power, if it even existed, would surely end the war with fewer casualties than an all-out conflict. But. . .Denam hesitated in outright agreement. Who would control such power? In whose hands did it belong? His Father's? Worse - the Lodissian's? When would they determine it "right" to be used? Denam shook his head, Sherri's idea would save lives, but he still held reservations. "I see your point, but I can't help but hesitate. Is it really peace if it is only consented through fear and terror? It will only renew old hated for our people."

"One step at a time, Denam." Her tone softened, as if she felt some release. Denam might even call her motherly. She brushed her hair back behind her ear which had earlier fallen in front of her face and twisted the end as she spoke. She seemed calm, satisfied. He passion had spilled out and she had awakened a new woman. Denam relaxed as his companion did and picked up his goblet for another sip of wine. "Peace is what is important for now. That and getting these cursed Lodissians off our Isles so that we may solve our own affairs."

Denam nodded slowly. Sherri spoke the truth - peace was the most important thing. There were problems with the system itself, but Denam could not fix it all at once. He had to save the people first. Denam rose from his chair; both he and Sherri had finished their meals and Sherri had spoken her piece. Dinner was over and the young man requested, with no words, that he have some time to think on her words. Sherri understood his intention and the Commander walked over to his guest and offered her his hand. She pushed her chair from the table and took it, her pale skin in direct contrast with deep blue of his glove. They met eyes and smiled lightly as Denam escorted her to the door.

"Good luck, Sherri." was all he spoke to the woman who was his closest friend. "And thank you for your sacrifice. I know you did not wish to return. . ." She nodded in return, her small acknowledgment of his words and lightly kissed him on the cheek to silence him. She slid her slippers on without hesitation and waved to him as she opened the door, a cool breeze from the hall seeped in, and left for her room for the night without a word or a look back. They had spoken more words over dinner to each other than they had in the last year alone. Sherri was no talkative woman, that she even spoke as much as she did told him she was terrified of what she was about to do.

Denam turned away from the door and the memory of the woman who he knew he would not see for some time. He dared not think on her journey, or what she would face, for if he did he might well follow her. Such magic was not obtained easily and Mreuva would have hidden it with deadly guardians if it was truly as powerful as Sherri described. The back of Denam's mind was terrified that the woman who had supported him and acted as a caregiver through his adolescence would disappear, never to be seen again, just like so many other of his friends and followers. But no matter how many Denam had lost, there were families who had lost just as much, if not more. 'Twas they who he fought for, and for the children of the future.

"Such a dour face does you no credit."

Denam drew his blade at the voice, his thoughts interrupted by the sound from behind. He had long since removed his armor for his common clothes and an intruder would have the advantage. The person must have come in while he had been focused on Sherri. He cursed his oversight as his darted through the room. The figure made itself known with its hands out in front, as if to show she was unarmed.

"Steady, Denam." Denam released a long breath and sheathed his blade as he looked over the form of Cerya Phoraena, half-covered in shadows, only the light of a distance candle made her visible at all. It was only because Denam knew her so well that he recognized her.

"Cerya" Denam released the word on a long exhale; her name sounded wispy, as if he had longed for her for some time. He had not meant to speak his emotions such, but it made the elder woman smile. She approached slowly until she stood right before him. Denam had long since grown taller than her, but her presence was just as powerful as his. She looked up at him and decreased the distance as she encircled her arms around his waist in an uncharacteristically forward bout of affection. Cerya was not a woman who enjoyed such touch and Denam stiffened at it, but allowed himself to relax in her warmth. She smelled of the road, as if she had traveled long to reach Denam. He had no doubt she did so, Boed was weeks away on foot, even by the fastest trail, even longer if, like her, one had to avoid detection. Denam brought his face close and nuzzled his elder. Her hair was a mess, but that did not deter the commander as he kissed her cheek. It had been so long since he last saw Cerya that he half-worried she had fallen. He did not need to say it aloud, as he knew Cerya understood his meaning just through the longing touch alone. The mutual trust and affection between them was something Denam desperately wished he never had to let go.

"I'm sorry I could not visit sooner, but I see we've both been busy." she whispered against him. Unlike Denam, she wore her battledress, as if she was prepared for an attack at any time. A founded fear, that - if any saw her in Heim they would attempt to kill her, Denam's word or no.

"You musn't take unnecessary risks." Denam scolded and, before he could think better of it, continued with spite. "You were spying on me."

Cerya pulled away from their hug with a secretive smile on her features. She said nothing, but took his hand; he immediately noticed the coldness, even through his thin formal glove, and grasped it tightly as she pulled him to the couch, where they both sat down. The woman leaned into Denam's shoulder as they relaxed. If Denam thought a bit of time together would make him forget her spying, Cerya was sorely mistaken, but he would accept this, for now, as she gave him the rare gift of warmth and kindness. Cerya's long hair fell over his clothes and Denam played with the ends in a bored manner as he broke their short-lived peaceful silence. "Whatever you plan, it is too dangerous."

He heard Cerya's sharp, annoyed, intake of breath and saw her frown as she turned to look up at him from her lounged position against his shoulder. "'Tis what you always say. Yet here I am! I will continue to return, do not worry for me." Cerya did not know it, but she confirmed Denam's fears. She most certainly planned something that would risk her life. He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to rub his forehead.

"Do I even wish to know what it is this time?" His comment earned him light laughter, which only served to worry the young Commander more. Surely, Cerya did not come to him to speak politics, yet 'twas she who brought it upon herself, for she was the one who had sought the information he had discussed with Sherri. The two women were not friendly with each other; Cerya loathed her younger sister for what she considered a "betrayal" at the side of Brantyn, yet she seemed to accept Denam with no hesitation. It was not as if he was any drastically different from his father, so he often wondered why Cerya remained with him, even after such passionate outcries against the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom. There were times Denam worried that Cerya used him for her own gains, just as she used everyone else, but he could not bring himself to confront her about it. Cerya was a good woman, not one to sell her love and herself for her goals, or so he liked to tell himself.

"Our plans are finalized." Denam's frown only progressed, but Cerya spoke with pride. She was passionate about the Front above all else, so it made sense why she would be excited, but Denam could not share in her pleasure. Whatever Cerya's plans were, they were certainly bad for his father, even if they were good for the Bakram. He looked down to the woman, who, too, had a frown, before she gave Denam an accusatory glare. "The only issue is Lodis."

Denam met her glare with a flat expression. "They're always the problem. As I've told you in the past, I have no power over them." Had Denam his way, and Brantyn gave Denam his way in a great many things - but not this, the Lodissians would not be in Valeria in the first place. They massacred one town, the Walister port of Golyat, soon after their arrival and a second, only more recently, Rhime, an important trade hub between the Walister, Galgastani, and the Bakram. Denam would not consider them the peacekeepers they desperately feigned.

"I am not asking you to do anything about Dark Knights." Denam did not believe her, but refused to press the issue. "Since you are apparently too thick to understand the meaning behind my words without explanation: I am asking how you will deal with Lodis when your father is killed." She spoke with fondness in her light lecture, but her tone turned dangerous at the. Denam knew his love was revolutionary and she had never made any attempt to pretend otherwise. She would often speak of his father's death, even if Denam did not approve. Cerya never hid her intentions from Denam, despite them being at close to opposite ends of the political spectrum.

"We've had this discussion in the past. I will not kill my father." His reply was more weary than angry. Denam was tired; he felt more than thrice his age. So many people relied on him, and he wished only to meet their expectations, it tore him apart. He knew 'twas optimistic and childish to hope for happiness for all and long forgone that conclusion, but he would do his best to finish the war with as few sacrifices as he could. Before Cerya could speak the biting words on her tongue that Denam knew were there, he continued. "Why would I even be Regent in my Father's place? I've no right to it, less, I am no man of the cloth. The decision is not mine to make."

To Denam's surprise, Cerya's annoyance burst immediately. She pushed away from Denam and stood in frustration. It seemed the young man said something that set her off, but he could not quite tell what. "Do not be a fool!" It was more a hiss than a statement. "If Brantyn falls, the Bakram will follow you. You know it. I know it. Even the Order of Phlilaha would back you if necessary. Olivya is-"

Denam interrupted Cerya before she could continue her tirade. "I've not spoken to Olivya for more than two years and I _know_ you have not either. She likely does not care for my place in politics." Denam secretly wondered why Cerya would mention her youngest in the first place; she had broken ties with her entire but family other than Cistina and the elder refused to even acknowledge Sherri's existence, even when they came so close to each other. Denam knew the two eldest were hurt the most, their relationship shattered entirely, but it was unlike Cerya to speak of any of her sisters. If she and Denam were not lovers, she would not see him at all, even if they had spent much time together as children. "I've no desire for power." Denam had more than enough as it was; he used it simply because he could bring about the change that was necessary, but to be Regent? He was ill at the thought. "I've more than enough influence as I am now, and more freedom to do as I would than were I under the burden of leadership"

Cerya's anger did not entirely fade, but he saw her visibly deflate under his cool, rational words. She did not sit, instead she put her weight on Denam's shoulders from her position above him, the pressure firm and uncomfortable, and continued her demands. "We cannot win without dirtying our hands. The Walister Resistance has all but won, you _will not_" her words were an order, but one Denam agreed with "sit back and let Brantyn take care of your problems for you!" With her weight so unbalanced, Denam took the opportunity to encircle her waist with his arms. Before she could get away, he pulled her down on top of him and ran his fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp. Cerya was easily flustered, but he knew the ways to calm her; it worked well and she melted into him.

"Just as we will not hide behind Lodis and have them take care of our problems?" He murmured against her. The fight released from Cerya as she nodded against him.

"Exactly. Take a stand, Denam. I know you will not openly support the Front, but whether you admit it or no, you agree with out ideals." She looked up, her face just below his, and met his eyes. She had an oddly somber look to her, as if she regretted what she said, but the emotion was gone in an instant. "You will be the light to our shadow. I, no - we, will take the grime for you so that your hands remain pristine."

Though the Phoraena woman had simply reworded what she always said, it was her manner that distressed him. He turned away; his anger had faded, replaced with despair. "I cannot allow that, love." He finally spoke, voice weaker than intended.

Cerya's reply held more regret than he had ever heard from her. If all was truly in place, as she earlier said, then this could be one of the last times they saw each other. "You're too good, Denam. . ." it was Cerya's turn to be forward as she straddled his lap, one hand in his hair and the other made its way up his shirt in her attempt to remove it. "Change is coming. You cannot swim against the river." The woman pressed herself firmly against him as she worked off his top.

"You play a dangerous game." His heart beat more quickly as Cerya's hips rolled atop his. His hands around her waist made their way under the red dress she wore and pulled it over her with a decided lack of grace; Denam noted that she lacked her weapons, but they were probably in the corner. It did not matter anyway - his mind was far too distracted by the pleasant way she trailed her fingers over him, the only warmth in the cool night air. His reply was breathy. "Stay at Boed, Cerya. If anyone learns of you coming here. . ." his words faded as Cerya's hands tugged at the string on his trousers.

"We've been like this for years, no one will catch us." Her playful words did little to soothe his worry, but her actions spoke far more loudly; they would not be distracted this evening.

* * *

><p>"Father."<p>

Denam kneeled deeply to said man. Denam had a great deal of respect for his father and what he had done for the Bakram people, even if they often came to disagreements on method. The Regent's room was large an open, with large windows that spanned almost a fourth of the wall and door that led to a large balcony that overlooked the city. In the central chamber, where his father received guests, was a large table where Brantyn took his meals. The tapestries around the room were adorned with marks of the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom and all paintings that were a reminder of the times before had been removed, discarded or sold - Denam did not know which, and replaced by calm environmental art of forests, bodies of water, flowers, and the sea. Compared to Denam's plain and professional room, adorned with little more than his various weapons and rugs, it was almost flamboyant.

To Denam's surprise, though his father had requested them meet alone, there was a third presence in the room. Denam did not recognize the man, as he was obviously not Bakram or Lodissian, and was dirty and unwashed as if he had traveled some distance without rest. Denam's first evaluation of the brunette was that he held his weapons close, but his pride closer. He glared at Denam for no reason the Bakram Commander understood and Denam opted to shrug it off. If his father wished to treat with such. . .people. . .it was not his business to speak otherwise.

"You've my answer. Return to your master." was his father's cool dismissal of the odd young man. Denam did his best not to stare at him, but his curiosity got the better of him as the unfamiliar man walked past and the two met eyes for an instant before the brunette made an odd sound of disgust and stormed from the room in a haste he previously lacked. The situation sat oddly with him, and the commander filed it away for later investigation.

"Denam" his father turned to him as the younger man rose from his kneeled position. Denam's eyes met his father's as the elder spoke in an almost bored tone. "Some weeks ago, as I'm sure you're aware, Loslorien took Rhime." Denam nodded cautiously. The situation had turned an already-brittle peace into one that could shatter at the lightest touch. "Rogue" group or no, the Lodissians caused more problems than they were worth. His father continued. "With the Walister victory in the south, soon we will begin negotiations. However, Rhime is turbulent; though we've troops there, they are inexperienced and lack popularity. You will see to the situation."

Denam's frown deepened. The orders were vague at best; a sense of dread welled within the young commander. Whenever his father did not tell him the entire situation it always meant it was far more dangerous than he let on. "You wish me to. . .quell the uprising?" Denam chose his words carefully.

"You understand. We can't have the civilians rebel while we deal with the Walister. It would complicate our situation yet more, especially as Rhime is a prime strategic location, need it come to that." The Regent's words were bored, as if he cared little for Denam's opinion on the subject. His father seemed to be under an unusual amount of stress as he was not usually so openly apathetic. Denam simply nodded and waited for the elder to finish. "I can't lend my troops directly to you, nor can you bring your own, as Ronwey will see that as a direct threat on the encroachment of his territory. Instead the High Commander" Denam's heart immediately sank "and I have come to an arrangement where you will have some control of one regiment of Lodissian troops alongside a small, select group of Bakram. Their Commander will stand by you as your guard and see your orders through to completion, of course." Brantyn turned away from Denam and out into the large, busy city. Denam's eyes, too, were drawn to the breathtaking view, with the bright light that almost created a halo over the Royal City. It was a few moments before his father spoke again; he did not bother to turn back to Denam. "I've already sent the order out. You're to leave two hours from now, once you've prepared."

Denam was shocked. A march on such short notice was unheard of; the situation must be truly dire. His father continued to stare out over the city and Denam recognized his wordless dismissal. He bowed his head respectfully and turned away to leave his father. The guards bowed respectfully as Denam walked past but Denam offered them little recognition beside his own offhanded nod. Two hours was barely enough time for him to prepare, he had only hope the Lodissians would be ready, for he certainly was not.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

To Denam's great dismay, he was the last of the ranked officers on the grounds in front of the castle. He had been raised to be prompt, as the one who earliest arrived had the clearest view of events. The force amassed was not large, just as his father said, but Denam recognized at least a few of the Bakram that had been chosen as some of the most skilled the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom had to offer. The Lodissians were respectful and stood at attention as soon as they saw him, but Denam ignored them as best he could. He would not be a hypocrite; had he his way, he would leave them in Heim and take only the small group of Bakram, even if they would be desperately outnumbered.

The young Commander approached the Knight Commander - no, two? Denam knew Lodis would not send more than necessary, they cared little for the Valerian political situation, why was there a second one? As Denam drew closer it became apparent the two were in argument, as the Templars around them had given them some space and the Bakram had withdrawn to the side entirely in a purposeful attempt to ignore the scene. Denam respectfully pushed his way through to the duo and paused just out their range in order to hear what they argued about. One of the Templars nearby murmured to him quietly before he could get a grasp on the situation:

"Best leave them be for now. Those two are unpredictable when they're like this." This earned a nod from the Templars nearby and Denam sighed. They needed to leave, they could not afford such infighting at such a critical time. But Denam remained stationary and watched as the two continued.

"Mind your business, brother." Denam recognized that one; the only female Knight Commander. Sherri had spoken highly of her, but Denam's own experiences with her were odd. The last time he saw her had been little more than a week earlier and she had done nothing but stare at him. She spoke to another Commander had not encountered outside of public events, the one she called "brother."

"No." His reply was clipped and annoyed, but Denam could tell it held some amusement. It reminded him of the way Cerya would speak to he and Olivya when they wanted to play alone as children. He had no intention of backing down and Denam realized this was the source of the argument.

"So you'd rather me stay, alone, here?" The woman looked ready to stomp her foot on the ground and put her hands on her hips. Though she had far too much class to do so, Denam examined her vivid and passionate anger. She was so very different from he, who hid his emotions behind impassiveness. The truthful bluntness of her, and her brother's, actions was a welcome relief in the world of political games he had to deal with.

"You practically begged Balxephon for the position." More annoyance from the male. His jaw was set and the words caught Denam's attention. Why would the woman want to ride with him to Rhime? She seemed the cultured type, Templar or no, and was better suited for a larger city. Perhaps his first impression of her was incorrect?

"I fail to see your point." The siblings stared at each other in a way that reminded Denam of the way he and Sherri did when they got into a disagreement. An aggressive fondness, he could call it. The Templars beside him were shifting their weight, uncomfortable as they witnessed the private scene. Denam found it amused him, as for all the Lodissians pretended to be a greater people, they held the same conflicts as the Bakram. He saw them as more human than he had before. But while the scene revealed quite a bit about his new companion, or companions, he could not allow it to continue any longer.

"I _know _you're to do something foolish, sister, I will not-"

"Are you two quite done?" Denam took two steps forward into their space. His firm voice echoed through the of the small army. As if by magic, the two Knight Commanders went silent and all Templars and Bakram in the vicinity held their breath. A warm breeze blew Denam's hair across his features, but he didn't bother to remove the long strands as he watched the duo's reaction. The woman, Ozma, had the grace to blush deeply, but the man looked back and forth between Denam and Ozma with a self-satisfied expression, as if he intended for the situation to happen. He spoke first.

"I've been requested to assist you." The man's voice returned to an apathetic tone, the earlier annoyance faded, as if he didn't particularly care about Denam or the reason why he was assigned to him in the first place. The dark-armored man was slightly shorter than Denam and, while he was well-groomed, he gave off the feel that he simply did not care how others perceived him. Denam could not for the life of him remember the male red-head's name.

"Is there a problem?" Denam finally asked and looked sharply over at the woman. Denam had nothing in particular against women in the army, as most of the strongest people he knew were women, but this particular one seemed irrational and even irresponsible to make such a scene. He frowned at her and while she did not look away, the siblings spoke at the same time.

"No." The male's voice was calm, but the annoyance returned, as if he did not want Denam to give his sister what she wanted.  
>"Yes." In contrast, the woman was harsh. From what little he could gather, it was was not that she expected the world to bend for her, she just seemed very stubborn when it came to something she wanted. If she was the same in battle, then Denam could admit she was likely a dangerous force to be reckoned with, ridiculous actions or no.<p>

Denam felt the back of his head pound. It was enough that he had to accept the Lodissian's help in this affair, but he just had to be assigned the ones who did not get along with each other. They were obviously his elders, yet Denam felt as if he baby-sat them. Perhaps that was entirely _why_ they had been given to him, for their Commander could not deal with them. He steeled his voice and manner as he spoke. "Best solve your issue as soon as possible, we leave in ten minutes, with or without you."

The Templars nearby were shocked at the Bakram's blatant disregard for their Commanders' positions and both Knight Commanders stiffened at the unfamiliar firmness in orders, by a Bakram, no less. The male's eyes darkened and the female's brightened, as if she saw the opportunity at Denam's words. "I am to accompany you-my brother." Her tone brooked no denial, a far different one than she used earlier, where it held anger towards her brother, nor did it hold the confusion or boredom like it had when he had spoken to her on other occasions. This was the Knight Commander, not the woman. But Denam no fool; he heard her mistake about accompanying Denam, even if he did not understand what she meant. What did she get from assisting him? If the earlier argument was accurate, she seemed to have wanted this assignment, but it was given to her brother instead. The mystery yet deepened. What did the Lodissians plot?

"I am not in the position to make that decision." the Bakram commander stated flatly as he stared at the woman. She was a good deal shorter than Cerya, who was already shorter than he, but of a less thin and more curved body than the eldest Phoraena. The armor did little to make her look bulky, as one of her size did not naturally intimidate. Denam had no doubt that she was a sorceress of some type, she did not have the build for any of the heavier jobs. Denam's eyes darted to the male, who was almost equally lightly built. Like his sister, he carried at least three weapons on his person, a dagger and sword on his belt and a rather large axe on his back. Also like his sister, he did not bother to hide the emotion on his expression and his message was very clear: the victory was his, his sister had best remain in Heim.

Ozma placed a hand on hilt of her sword, one her weapons, the others, Denam glanced over her quickly, were a whip and dagger. He did not understand the purpose or the motion that was usually considered hostile, nor did he care. Perhaps it was instinctual for her, just as it was for any other trained soldier. "Balxephon" The Lodissian woman spoke a name Denam was slightly more familiar with; the Bakram had met the man on a few occasions and Denam knew he embodied the political mindset of the nobility. That particular Lodissian was more dangerous verbally than he was physically. ". . .is away to Phidoch. Neither of _us_ are in the position to allow or disallow my continued presence in your troops." She smiled brightly, and Denam was instantly on guard at the expression. "It is up to you, Sir." To his surprise, as she finished, he noted the words were not the sugary sweet he would have expected from her, but were a more somber controlled pleasure.

In truth, Denam did not care either way. The two were more trouble than they were worth; he gave the first answer that came to mind. "Very well," he walked between the pair "if it will end this ridiculousness she may come along." Denam raised his voice so that all heard him as he snapped his orders out. There were less than ten-score with them and Denam was used to a much larger force, but it was easier, and more efficient, to command the smaller group. Loslorien had the right of it with their strategy in that manner, Denam admitted to himself. Templar and Bakram alike mobilized immediately at his word, a welcome relief from his worry that the Lodissians might not follow him, as Denam announced their departure.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

The trip to Rhime was uneventful for the most part - or so Denam would like to say. After the first encounter with the two Knight Commanders, Denam had silently approached one of his Bakram and questioned him about the odd pair who had been ordered to accompany him. Though the other Bakram did not know much, he was able to tell Denam that they were twins and the male's name was Oz. That was the end of any normalcy of his trip, as events only became stranger by the day – nay, hour. It was not that the Lodissians were disrespectful, or that the Templars and his own Bakram did not get along; quite the opposite, his troops were well behaved and efficient. It was the two Knight Commanders he was at conflict with, even if not openly.

The male minded his business, for the most part. He kept his distance and Denam had no issue with their professional relationship. In private, when none were around, there were times when the Lodissian man would stare at Denam with the oddest expression. Not quite hate, but curiosity mixed with an outright hostility. As the elder realized what he did he would shake his head as if he saw something that was not there. Denam did not understand him, but as bad as the man was, the woman was far, far worse. During the entire trip she acted, as she explained, as his "guard." While Denam was used to guards in his space, he knew his Father would not have given him the Lodissian to stay by his side at all times - not even he trusted Loslorien enough to have his son guarded by one. Denam cared little for her white lie, but he had not been able to get any more information from her. He supposed it did not matter, she served her purpose, was respectful, and, better, she was pleasant company – perhaps the only member of his entire force that Denam enjoyed short conversations with. She was expressive, but not talkative, and much of the time she would simply make an offhanded sarcastic remark, usually of somewhat dubious nature, that always served to amuse him. Sometimes, like her brother, she would just stare at him. At one point Denam had been curious, and bored, enough that he asked the red-head why she looked at him oddly.

At first, her eyes had darkened and she was silent for a long time. Denam wondered if he had broken some Lodissian cultural taboo before more than five minutes later she finally replied "You remind me of someone." They had not spoken of the subject again, but after that the female Knight Commander acted as if nothing had changed, but she did catch herself when she stared and even had the grace to blush whenever she looked away. Denam would have thought himself insane, but it was not only he who noticed her actions. Over supper, he heard more than a few Templars quietly talk on the subject when they did not believe he listened. They spoke of how Dame Ozma pursued the "young Bakram Commander." Denam wanted to discard the notion as ridiculous, as he had no idea what he had done to garner the woman's attention, but she continued her odd game and Denam knew that denial was fruitless, as it was fairly obvious she had some odd attraction to him. Denam did not realize how dangerous her game was until he later heard about her engagement to Balxephon.

"Your blade." Denam looked up from his report. There was nothing of particular interest on it, but he read it as thoroughly as he could to try and prepare himself. The situation in Rhime was worse than he had anticipated, his Father had barely scratched his surface in its description; it was less the riot and more the revolution. Denam sighed as he furrowed his brows at Ozma's question. He supposed he should be thankful for the distraction, but he only felt annoyance. "Where did you learn to use it?" She demanded. Denam had learned quickly that the woman was forceful when she chose to be and would be stubborn until she got whatever she wanted. Best answer her or he would get no more of his night's work done; Denam understood why her brother's patience always seem tried when he spent some time with the woman. They would reach Rhime in a matter of days, he had to be prepared. "Yours is not the style of the other Bakram officers." She continued on and intentionally ignored Denam's obvious attempts to remain silent.

"You disapprove?" Denam did not know what brought up the subject. It was not as if he hid his talents, for he practiced with his blade every day and any in the field could watch him. If anything, it was his magical arts that he has long neglected, though he was perhaps even more skilled in, and would be damned before he asked the Lodissian for assistance when them. His lack of answer was obviously not what the Dame looked for and she did not move from her position to high right. If anything, she got closer until Denam continued. "In all honesty, much is self-taught. Father and most of my role-models wished me to join the Church, but I had no interest in such things, and I was not permitted to go to the Academy. It was not until I was old enough to work for myself that I was able to pay for lessons from a particularly skilled mercenary who was in Heim at the time" Denam chuckled at the memory; his father had been furious when he had learned he had taken swordplay lessons at all, let alone from a _foreigner_. He was glad that he had been able to keep his lessons hidden for the scales he had, for he had time to learn; even still, he had not met a better man with a sword. He supposed it was to his advantage that Magic was considered acceptable by his Father, so long as it was Divine, but Denam had little skill in that, either. He much preferred Fire - likely due to Cerya's influence.

". . ." She did not reply, but her brows crinkled, deep in thought at Denam's response. How different their lives must have been, if she found Denam's story so out of place. It was common to him, as it was Cerya and Sherri, too, and many had similar stories where they could not take lessons as they wished to. "Your style is. . .impressive." was all she murmured as she offered him a warm smile despite the vague, oddly sad, words. Denam did not return the smile, as he was not one to easily show his emotions, but he nodded and acknowledged her compliment.

"I admit, Dame," it was Denam's turn to press. Given that Ozma seemed talkative, the young commander wanted to see if he could unravel the mystery behind her actions. "I am confused as to why you are here."

"I wish to stay by my brother's side." That lie. Denam knew it and the woman knew it. Denam, however, would not tolerate it any longer. Before he could open his mouth to speak further, he was interrupted.

"Which is why you speak little more than a dozen words to him every day?" Denam and Ozma's attention fell onto the door, where the armored figure of Ozma's brother stood. His normally-pleasant features were dark and shrouded by the shadow as he spoke the harsh accusation in his sister's direction. Denam wondered if the Lodissians had any sense of privacy; this was not the first time they had simply barged into his chambers, be them a room at an Inn or his private tent, without warning or welcome. He took a few steps forward and dropped a small parchment onto the table Denam worked at. He continued as if his sarcastic and forceful entry had not happened at all.

"Sister, Sir Denam, new orders from the Regent. We're to be in Rhime two days from now." Oz gave his sister a long look, as if to communicate a hidden meaning in his message. Ozma's features hardened. Denam felt all together uncomfortable with the silent conversation that he did not understand. He cursed Lodis; even when they were to serve under him they plotted behind his back. It was abundantly clear they had no loyalty at all to the Bakram beyond whatever his father had promised. Had Denam his way, their leash would be much shorter. He picked up the parchment and glanced over it.

"Impossible, we will not cross quickly with our numbers . ." Her words faded as Denam looked over the orders. They were encoded, but Denam was familiar enough with the code that it did not take him more than a few moments to decipher it. It was just as the red-head said, they were needed in Rhime immediately.

"We split the force, then. Ronwey is not brash enough to attack your Templars." Denam stood from the small table at the center of the Inn's largest private room and walked over to his small bag in the corner. He had not dressed down for the evening, but it seemed he would get no sleep at all. "Dame Ozma, if you would take the first group? Your troops are more comfortable under you than they are me."

"Oz is just as capable as-" Ozma glared at Denam in response, the coldest look he had ever received from her. The woman was such an odd one; so gentle one moment, but then she quickly angered, before it faded away into a soft kindness once again. No proper Bakram woman was add as she and if other Lodissian woman were like her, he pitied the men of the country. Denam did not understand her anger; it was not as if he ordered anything that was remotely controversial. The back of Denam's mind knew the answer, even if he was hesitant in acceptance: she wanted to continue to "guard" him. Or, as Denam started to agree with the Templars, she wanted to continue to pursue him for whatever reason.

"Listen to the Commander and do as you're told, sister." Ozma's attention was drawn to her brother and Denam watched as a myriad of emotions flew over her features. First annoyance, then a pure anger so strong that he worried she might scream at the other man, before she was finally overwhelmed with an acceptance then, oddly enough, sadness. She spoke no more, but simply nodded respectfully to Denam. Denam nodded in return, pleased to see she was rational, but Ozma did little more than glare at her twin as she stomped from the room in order to see Denam's command through. Denam was glad he was not Oz, for there was no doubt the red-head would get a piece of his sister's mind once they reached Rhime. Denam turned away and shook his head as he rustled through his belongings and picked out his sword belt.

"She's obsesses over you." The Templar's words were blunt and uncomfortably loud. At first Denam worried he misheard, but the worry soon turned to fear that others would hear; this conversation was not one he wished to have in such a public area. Denam frowned at the other male, he should have left when his sister did, but the elder remained stationary, eyes on the younger Bakram. Denam was relieved that the door was long closed behind Ozma, as he felt this situation would not be concluded cleanly. Conflict in the upper echelons served no purpose but to raise distrust within the lower ranks and commons; it was always better to pretend you agreed in front of others and deal with the consequences later, in a more private area. Apparently the Lodissian believed this to be a "private area" and that now was the time for their issues to be resolved.

"Pardon?" Denam looked back down to his belt and tied it around his waist, the worn leather comfortable and loose. Denam had no intention of playing the Templar's games. Where he enjoyed Ozma's quiet company, Oz only proved hostile and they could not work together on anything more than a professional basis.

"You heard me correctly. I do not say this lightly, but" to Denam's surprise, Oz's voice dropped in a quiet hesitation. He spoke factually, but spoke the words as if he did not wish to believe them "Sister has gone mad. You are the cause." His conversational tone hardened immediately and, by his last words, showed outright hostility. Denam picked his blade from its place on the chair beside his pack in an obvious show of defense. He did not fear the Templar, but also did not wish to fight him.

"What. . .why?" Denam spoke some of his confusion. Ozma was not always as such? It made sense; she was certainly not what he would expect from a woman of her position and standing. Emotional and even irresponsible women did not rise through the ranks, blue blood or no. Even though she was his elder by a good number of years, she acted almost as young as him, even where she was obviously the more experienced in battle. In some ways it was a relief to know that the female Templar was not always so odd, but in others it made Denam wonder what he did to bring such odd emotions out of the woman. Denam held his blade tightly, but Oz did not move.

"Why else do the mad act as they do? They need no method." The Lodissian shrugged and the Bakram nodded slowly in his agreement. He kneeled and picked up his dagger and sheath and attached them to his belt as he spoke.

"What can I do? I do not wish to disturb her engagement." It felt more than a bit odd to have a woman who was soon to wed pursue him. There were many who had shown interest in Denam before, for his position, for his skill, and even for his appearance. Cerya was the only one Denam cared for and he had no desire to betray her.

"The easiest answer would for you to simply stop existing." Oz moved quickly as drew his blade; his axe was far too large for such a small area. Denam, grasp on his blade already firm from Oz's earlier hostility, moved to position himself defensively, blade held in front of him. Both men breathed heavily, but neither made a move to attack; Denam examined the man's form. It did not lack the weaknesses that he could usually find in his opponents; the Templar was a skilled opponent and, even if he did kill him, he would have the rest of the Lodissians hostile to him. Denam's situation went from bad to worse as the situation dawned on him, but Denam would not give the Lodissian the satisfaction of showing his worry. He hated Loslorien, but he was not one to risk a breakdown of the only alliance that stopped the death of the Bakram people – no, he would not kill the man, even to save his own life. Maiming, on the other hand, was perfectly acceptable. The two breathed heavily and stared at each other for what seemed an hour before the tension finally shattered. The Dark Knight quickly sheathed his blade with an annoyed huff and took a few steps back towards the door. Denam slowly mimicked the action. "No, while I'd like to kill you, I am not one to break Oath." The Lodissian smiled oddly, a sideways glance that looked oddly roguish. "It would also upset Sister."

"I've no desire for Dame Ozma, Sir." Denam did not turn his back to the red-head, still cautious about the man's immediate shift in mood. Ozma was pleasant company, but he belonged only to Cerya, even if the Phoraena woman continually warned him that their relationship was not to be.

"No doubt; 'tis entirely the problem. There is no way for this to end well for her." Oz finally turned away from Denam entirely and walked into the doorway that led from Denam's room into the hall. The Lodissian ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Be ready in a half-hour, we depart then. I've already given the order."

* * *

><p>Rhime was a pleasant city. Or rather, it would have been had a subtle tension not overwhelmed the air. The moment he had taken a step within the city walls he could sense the hostile reaction of both the guards and inhabitants. Though he had earlier met up with Ozma and the rest of the troops assigned to him and the city was already taken by Bakram from Loslorien's earlier assault, all it took was a stray arrow to his head from one of the half-trained commons. His lack of helmet was dangerous, even moreso as he realized that some of Walister and Galgastani inhabitants recognized him. They spat on the ground as he passed; Denam had not realized his fame, or infamy, had spread even to the Walister people. Or perhaps it was not him at all, they simply loathed any Bakram they saw. Denam closed his eyes and sighed as he made his way to the city hall. Peace between clans looked farther away than it ever had before.<p>

The city's government was in shambles and the only one who came to meet him was a Bakram representative who was apparently in the trust of his Father. Denam did not know the man, and he lacked trust in politicians, but the slimy creature seemed to understand the situation in the city well and explained in great detail that the city had split into factions and about the support and chance for potential revolt. Denam quickly saw why his father had sent him; Rhime was almost ready to break apart from its seams. Denam did not wish to kill the dissenters, and he knew himself was to be a powerful and often influential speaker, as was his strength and the reason why his father put such trust in him, but he worried that Rhime might well be beyond anyone's power to save. No amount of promises of peace could repair the broken city, only an end to the war would bring it back on the path to prosperity. After the short meeting, Denam allowed himself to be escorted to his temporary quarters. The Loslorien Knight Commanders were sent to a different hall alongside their Templars, where Denam's Bakram were allowed to remain near him. If Denam thought the citizens of Rhime held a blatant hostility towards him, he realized it was miniscule compared to what the Lodissians felt on even a daily basis. Had Denam not held a similar distaste for them himself, he might even pity the foreigners.

Denam smiled and thanked his guide as they reached the room. It was of moderate size on the second floor, near the end of the hall. It was strategically in a sound location and, if the situation came down to it, it was easily defensible; though Denam knew he was more likely to encounter violence outside the city hall than inside. The chambers were comfortable and well-lit, much like a room at an expensive inn. It was small enough to seem homey, but large enough that it was not claustrophobic or cramped. Denam was impressed at its cleanliness; many of the smaller cities were nowhere near as clean as his native Heim, but he was pleasantly surprised at how well taken care of his quarters were, especially because they lacked any servants. On the large table in the central chamber was a pitcher with water and a bottle of win. Though his temporary bedroom had dressers, Denam had no clothes to place in them. He came in his armor and weapons and some nightclothes he kept in his pack; he needed little else.

As Denam returned to the central chamber after his short exploration, he almost drew his weapon as he saw a form that sat at the central table. A quick glance over her saw his breath slow, but his heart still beat quickly from the adrenaline that had poured through him, if only for an instant.

"Cerya! Why are you here?" Denam did not rush over to the woman, instead he remained stationary as she smiled sadly at him from the head of the table and poured them both a glass of the water from the pitcher. She looked exhausted, broken even. She had been tired when he last saw her, but she looked on the verge of collapse as she slumped deeply into the chair. Her hair was matted and unwashed and her dress was ripped. She obviously recently had gotten into some scuffle; Denam could feel her pain almost as if it was his own. He resisted the urge to run up and use his skill in Divine Magic to heal her and instead slowly approached and put his hand on the armrest beside her.

"Be silent, Denam." Her voice was strong, despite her obvious physical weakness. "Neither of us have much time." her weariness became even more evident to him as her sentences were short and stilted. Denam closed his eyes and nodded, but his expression was immediately alert upon her next words. "It all happens now."

Denam's breath hitched in his chest. "You don't mean. . .The Front wouldn't. . ." It had been Cerya's plan all along to assassinate both his Father and Ronwey. With Balbatos dead, they did not worry about him - if Cerya told him that their plans were almost completed, it meant events would soon fall into a panic beyond anything Denam could imagine. Cerya's ability to lead the small rebel group impressed him, even if her actions only meant ill for him.

Cerya was silent for some time as she let the words sink into Denam. She finished her water with small, frequent sips before she finally stood. Denam took a step back to give her space; Cerya approached the armored Bakram male, but stumbled lightly as she did so. Denam caught her and grasped at her so that she would not hit the ground. Cerya grunted at the impact with his armor, but accepted Denam's support wordlessly. That she showed such obvious weakness meant she was in far worse shape than she let on. How long had she fled from her pursuers? What had she done? Denam kissed the top of her head and ignored the dirt and oil that encrusted his love's hair. The woman melted into him in one of her rare shows of trust; any other woman could cry, but not Cerya. She was far too stubborn for that. "Cerya." Was all he spoke, a word that held all the affection he wanted her to know but could not find the words for. If Denam did not know better, he would have thought he heard the woman sob.

"I warned you, Denam, when we last met. The tide changes." She looked up at Denam from her position against his armored chest. "It's too late, Loslor-"

"Sir Denam." Denam and Cerya jumped apart immediately. Cerya stumbled backwards into the table and caught herself with the edge and Denam drew his blade in an innate defensive maneuver. The voice was firm and angry. Denam lowered his blade lightly as he saw his intruder. The Lodissian woman, Ozma, glared with utter loathing at the Phoraena woman who Denam had been caught with. He did not know if it was his eyes mistook him, but he believed the armored woman shook with rage. Cerya had gained some control over herself and hid her weakness once again as both women examined each other. Ozma radiated a darkness that he had not seen from her before; while he had not quite believed the male Lodissian's earlier comments about Ozma's madness, the claim did not seem quite as extraordinary as he saw the two women and their silent interaction.

"Dame Ozma?" Denam tried. His soft voice broke the tension and Ozma turned away from the Valkyrie. Cerya was no fool, she quickly walked to the door as quickly as she could without looking like she fled from the Lodissian. She gave Denam an odd look, sad, broken, one that promised much - but Denam could not quite tell what it implied. She breathed heavily and rushed the room and down the halls out of his sight. Denam knew she likely made for Boed. With Cerya gone, his attention was fully on the Loslorien Commander who seemed to pursue him for reasons unknown.

The Templar did not speak. She simply stared at Denam, an odd, conflicted look on her features that Denam felt was not caused by Cerya, but something else entirely. He doubted he would ever know what went through the odd Lodissian's mind. She finally released a breath, as if angry at herself, and spoke. "Who was that woman?" Both of them could tell Cerya was not what she had come to his room to speak of. Denam sheathed the sword that he forgot he held as he replied as casually as he could.

"That was an old. . .friend. . .of mine. I grew up with her." It sounded pathetic, even to his ears. He had been caught; their two-year affair was likely over. It had to happen at some point, and Denam supposed there were worse times for an affair of such political importance as Denam and the leader of the Liberation Front to be revealed, but he felt bad that the Lodissian woman was the one who saw them first.

"Friend." Ozma's reply was flat as she took two steps towards Denam. Her eyes narrowed in speculation; she did not believe him in the least and Denam knew she had every right not to.

"Friend." Denam repeated the word and kept his nervousness at bay as best he could as the insane Knight Commander approached his personal space. Denam ignored his urge to step back as he saw the suddenly playful look that appeared on the Lodissian's features.

"Do you treat all of your friends like that?" Her next steps were even faster than her previous ones and they were within arm's reach of each other. Before Denam could reply, she put her finger over his lips in motion to silence him. "We're. . .'friends'. . .aren't we, Denam?" Her voice was quiet and it reminded him of the wind as it blew through the leaves of a dense forest. The way she spoke was impassioned, but not in the same sense of Cerya when she spoke of a better Valeria. Ozma's passion was hidden beneath her expression, not her words; it was a voiceless strength that Denam recognized as similar to his own.

"Dame-" Denam tried to lightly push her away, but the Lodissian only took his gloved hands between hers. She pulled him towards her and Denam knew he should be on alert, but there was nothing about Ozma that sent him on edge as it should. His mind told him to flee, but his body would not listen. His body very much enjoyed the attention a beautiful woman like Ozma seemed to want to give him.

"Ozma." She closed the rest of the distance between them as she held his hands to her breastplate before she released them and put her arms around his neck. Her plate was just as cool as his was at the rare locations their unarmored flesh touched, but her voice warmed him to his core. "My name is Ozma." Denam lightly repeated the name under his breath, which only served to exhilarate the woman yet more. Against his will, he pulled the woman closer; her armor his her curves and allowed the Bakram's imagination to run wildly in a direction he did not wish for it to go. Denam felt dirty at his body's reaction to the Lodissian, but he did not wish to provoke the Knight Commander's anger, not with so little distance between them - nor did he not quite ewant her to stop, either. That small, rational, part of his mind slipped away entirely as she brought her lips to his. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced with Cerya. Where the Phoraena's kisses were light and filled with a lust and passion - as if each fiery kiss was their last, Ozma's were heavy, slow and cautious, controlled, as if she wanted to spend the time just to revel in his taste. The Lodissian pulled away after a few moments and Denam took the time to catch his breath. "This is so familiar. . ." her voice was a purr that caused Denam to shake. No, Cerya had never spoken to him like that before. Never before had Denam's more primal instincts wished his armor was on the floor between them than at that moment. "Hobyrim. . ." Was all she said before she brought her mouth to his again.

Denam did not know how long they remained in the position, sane man and mad woman, but before the Lodissian's insanity drove him down her path of irrational instability he pushed her away lightly and caught his breath. He forced away his body's desire to touch her more as Ozma simply put her head to his chest in a motion similar to what Cerya had done earlier. "What of Balxephon?" Denam pressed as lightly as he could, but his hands stroked the short woman's back as if against his will. It was uncomfortable to mention the woman's fiancée as he had just spent a moment of passion with her, but he felt dirty, as if he had betrayed some part of what his father had taught him.

"What of him?" She barely looked up. "Your brother has nothing to do with us." _Brother?_ Denam had no idea what she spoke of, for he was certainly of no relation to the Templar. Before Denam could question her on her odd words, the duo heard loud shouts from outside. Denam lightly pushed the woman away, who frowned, but nodded. Both of them approached the window with haste, Ozma kept her arm grasped onto his, and saw that fighting had started. Denam cursed silently as he saw his Bakram and the Lodissians struggle against the Walister and Galgastani in the city. They were vastly outnumbered, greater skill or no. Denam and Ozma shared a look of worry before they turned back towards the door. Before Denam could take more than a step, Ozma squeezed his hand again. "Leave this to us." She walked to the center of the room and Denam remained behind with a frown that deepened on his face.

"I will not let you do the fighting for me!"

At first Denam thought the Loslorien Templar ignored him, but realized he was mistaken as she instead kneeled on the floor near the end of the table, where she caught Denam and Cerya together earlier. Denam's eyes followed hers and saw something unexpected: a dagger on the ground. Denam recognized the craftsmanship, - no, he knew the blade itself. It was Cerya's. His breath caught in his chest as Ozma picked it up and held it out to him. Denam shakily took the blade and grasped it tightly before it could fall from his fingers. The words fell from his lips, as he had no idea what to say. Cerya would not have drawn her dagger unless she planned to use it, and the only person to use it on in the room was. . .

"You must stay safe in here, my love." Ozma patted Denam's hand as if to emphasize Denam's thoughts and her own words. The shock of Cerya's betrayal ran deeply within him and Denam could do little more than nod at Ozma's next words. "Your presence outside will only weaken relations between the Bakram and Walister more - you're too well known. You know this." Denam again nodded dumbly and allowed himself to be guided to the table to sit down. He was angry, at himself, at Cerya, at Ozma, at Ronwey, at his father, at the Walister - but mostly at himself. How could he allow himself to be weak in the time when he needed to be strong most?

"Trust me?" Though her words were phrased as a question, it acted more as a statement. She asked Denam to trust her to keep him safe - a remarkably bold approach that most women would dare not attempt. Denam released a breath and nodded in spite of his worry; he could protect himself well enough without her and he could admit she had solid reasoning. His elbows heavily on the table, Denam rested his forehead on his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. Ozma was right; he could do nothing in this situation. Relations were flimsy on the best of days and it had been overly optimistic of both he and his father to even think he had a chance to win Rhime. Ozma's hand ran down Denam's arm as she quickly fled the room and drew her weapon in preparation for the battle ahead of her.

Cerya's dagger lay abandoned on the table beside him.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

Denam did not know how long it was before Ozma returned to him. He had long since pushed his emotions back as forcefully as he could, and had spent well over an hour glancing out the window at the battle in the city. It was painful for him to be unable to go out and assist his countrymen; he wondered how his father and nobles like Ronwey and Balbatos could stand to the side and allow others to fight for them. His lack of power disgusted him; or perhaps it was because he had too much power that it limited his actions - Denam did not know which.

When she finally returned, Ozma looked like a completely different woman. Her normally controlled, calm - if a bit quiet and subdued - demeanor was gone and in its place was a woman who appeared vibrant and alive. Her hair was out of place and her armor bloodied, but that was to be expected after a long battle. She looked at Denam and offered him an oddly sad smile, the only mar to her beauty.

"You must come with me." Were her only words before she pulled Denam by the hand. Denam pulled away immediately and spoke his question without words. "The battle's over, but. . ." the woman's hesitation was back, as if she did not enjoy what she had to do "Just come, quickly, quietly. Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you." Her words did nothing but increase his ill ease, but he did as Ozma requested and followed her in silence.

Few were on the streets other than the guards, and Denam pointedly ignored the broken and destroyed bodies; most were of commoners and rebels, though Denam saw none of his Bakram. Perhaps they had been in a different area? Ozma's pace quickened as they reached a large church little more than five minutes from the city hall. Outside the church were two Templars, on guard. They fell into a formal stance of attention as Ozma passed and Denam noted their gazes on him, hostile, even through their helmets. The sun had not yet set; if the Walister were so bold as to attack during the day, he feared what they would do at night. Ozma pushed the door open and motioned for Denam to go inside.

The site that greeted Denam inside the cathedral was unlike any he would have expected. No, Denam corrected himself, it should have been exactly as expected from Loslorien. On the floor before him were the mutilated bodies of more than twenty dead Bakram soldiers - most of which were the ones he had brought earlier in the day. Near the door he had just entered from was one of the few living that remained in the cathedral. Denam frowned down at him and tried to remember where he had seen the odd brunette before; it didn't come to him, but Denam _knew_ that man. Denam's eyes reached the far side of the expansive church where he saw the man he knew to be the Loslorien High Champion, alongside the Dark Knight Oz. Behind them was the carcass of. . .someone. All Denam could tell was that he wore thick robes. A priest, most like.

"Get out of my sight." snapped Tartaros to the brunette male who begged on the floor to Denam's right. The man bobbed his head in terror and fled from the premises as if from an Ogre. The situation became yet odder and odder. Ozma approached the High Commander and stood beside her brother; she refused to look at Denam, her eyes focused on the ground as if it was the most fascinating thing she had seen. Denam took a step forward and allowed some of the confusion he felt to etch his features. Best try to find out what the Lodissians planned; he did not like the situation one bit.

Before Denam could speak, Tartaros' words filled the empty hall. They were not loud enough to echo, but they still held a power that chilled him. The tone spoke of years of experience that Denam lacked. "Denam Morne." Denam nodded cautiously and took a step forward, out of respect, but no more.

"Sir." Before Denam could make another sound, the red-headed male Templar approached Denam, with his sword drawn. Denam frowned, but did not draw his weapon in response. He did not want to give the Lodissians any reason to act, for he knew they would use any excuse they could to murder him. Oz made his way behind Denam and put the tip of his sword at his back. Denam knew the situation to be decidedly unfavorable for him and as each moment passed it soon became evidence that more like than not, he would not live to see the next morning. Had he been a weaker man, he would have despaired, but Denam Morne was not a man to simply give up, as these Loslorien were soon to find out not. He took another step forward as Oz roughly "poked" his sword into Denam's back to get him to move forward. Denam held back his grunt as he spoke as calmly as he could "For what reason am I being detained?"

Tartaros appeared almost bored and Ozma still refused to look at him. "You are under arrest in the name of the Holy Lodissian Empire for the attempted murder of the High Champion of Loslorien, Lanselot Tartaros." Tartaros grunted and the Templar behind him sighed. "Oh, and the murder of Duke Ronwey of the Walister Resistance." Oz spoke in Tartaros' place, voice bored and practiced, as if he did not care one way or the other. It was just another job to him. _Ronwey?_ Denam's eyes darted to the corpse at the back of the hall.

"What?" Denam could hardly believe what they said to him. He had done no such thing, let alone known of any plots that could have led to the events that had occurred this day. Had this been his father's plan the entire time when he sent him here? No, his Father wouldn't have had him killed, even if he was threatened by Denam's popularity. Were the Lodissians trying to pin a crime on him that he did not commit? Was this Cerya's doing? Was this Ozma's way of toying with him? There were so many "ifs" and "whys" that Denam had no idea where to start.

Oz continued in his bored tone. "For your betrayal of not only your homeland, but-" before he could finish, the door to the cathedral door slammed open from behind and shocked Oz and the other two Loslorien Templars. It gave Denam the chance he needed and he pulled his own blade out in as quick of motion as possible. Skilled as he was, the Bakram did not get far beyond a simple draw before Oz's attention was back on him and the sword at the back of his neck in its last warning.

"High Champion!" The newly arrived Templar spoke. He barely looked to Oz or Ozma or Denam and he appeared out of breath. "News from Heim, sir." That caught Denam's attention. "The shadow only just arrived." Denam kept his face impassive, but his attention was fully on the newcomer now, as was Oz's and Ozma's, the latter had finally looked up from the floor. None in the room seemed to know what had happened or the reason for the interruption.

"This had best be important." Tartaros spoke with that same quiet tone he had earlier used, but Denam could tell he held annoyance behind the calm words. The newly-arrived Templar nodded.

"Regent Morne is dead." Denam's mouth went dry and he sucked in a breath. Before he registered what was said, the Templar continued. "Worse, sir." Tartaros glared; Denam did not know what could be worse than news of his father's death. "Prancet is no longer under chain at Heim, someone has taken him away."

That provoked an external reaction from the pale-haired High Champion and he turned away in anger. Denam could tell he held a frustration so powerful that it appeared as if all of his plans had been destroyed in one swift instant. His grasp on the hilt of his blade tightened and his jaw set. Denam was not sure, but he thought he heard the elder man curse under his breath. "Worse and worse! Just after Brantyn tells us where he is, too. This is no coincidence! Who did this?" He demanded. Denam, too, wanted to know. Even if he was to die at Lodis' hands this day, at least he would know the fate of his country. If news from Heim had already reached Rhime, then his father had been gone for a day at least, possibly two. But, Denam belatedly thought, who was Prancet and why did the Dark Knights want him?

"The Liberation Front claims credit for Brantyn; we assume it is they who took Prancet as well." Denam almost dropped his sword and it was only his firmest self-control that kept it within his grasp. For what little good it would do him with Oz's presence behind him, it still gave him some strength. Denam did not know if Cerya had been the one to kill his father, for she certainly would have needed more than herself to both assassinate a Regent _and_ kidnap a man even Denam didn't know about, but there was no doubt the Phoraena woman had been terrified when he saw her. She had been struck to her core with exhaustion, as if she knew she was hunted. Denam did not want to imagine the woman he loved for so long, his first - and only - love, would kill his father, but evidence seemed to lead to her guilt, no matter how much he denied it.

The silence dragged on until Tartaros finally motioned for dismissal of the nameless Templar. He looked towards Denam and Oz, and nodded to Oz. To Denam's surprise, the red-head lowered his blade back into his sheath and took a step back to give Denam his space. He walked back over to his sister and Denam let out a long breath he did not know he held within him. Tartaros spoke to Denam "It seems things are not quite as planned, for all of us." Denam did not understand the man's words. Did he truly believe that it was Denam who tried to have him killed? Unlikely; but why place the blame on him? To force Denam from power and influence in the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom by dishonoring him? "We will deal with your crimes later." Tartaros turned to Oz and Ozma; the latter finally attempted to look at Denam, but Denam felt as disgusted by her as he did by Cerya. Whose betrayal had been worse? Cerya, who he had loved, but she saw him as a simple milestone on her path to revolution, or Ozma, who seemed to devote her heart to him - for whatever reason she chose to - but her mind focused on her duty as Loslorien Knight Commander? Both stung, even if Denam knew the latter was entirely his fault in that he should never have allowed himself to trust a Lodissian, even if only for a moment. Paired with his father's death, Denam was more distressed than he ever remembered being. He was broken, as if he wanted to collapse on the floor and cry. But he was too strong for that, he still had his duty to think about. "Oz, Ozma, I leave the Front in your capable hands. Sir Denam and I need to have a. . .prolonged discussion." Tartaros's words spoke volumes.

Denam spared a glance at the twins who had both nodded and walked away from the High Champion. To his surprise and confusion, he noticed that Ozma in particular wore a sadistic smile on her face, unlike any he had ever seen before. It sent more chills through him than the High Champion's declaration that he was not done with Denam yet. As Oz and Ozma left, a surprisingly informal event, Tartaros called to them. "Write Balxephon, he is needed in Rhime by tomorrow." Both siblings nodded in unison and Denam turned his attention back to Tartaros, who sat down in the front row of the chapel seats and held his head in his hands. He looked weary, an odd show of weakness. Denam finally allowed himself to lower his blade as he heard the large cathedral doors slam behind him.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>"Do stop moping, you've been entirely unpleasant for the last two days."<p>

". . ." Ozma chose not respond to her brother. He had never been one to mince his words and she had little tolerance for her younger twin in her current mood. He spoke the truth; Ozma had been decidedly upset since the day of Ronwey's death in Rhime. It was not the first time her personal feelings had conflicted with her duty and, though she swore to herself it would be the last, she knew she would someday break that promise to herself. Hobyrim's - no, Denam's, betrayed expression had pierced her deeply. It cracked the already brittle heart that remained within her. For weeks she had saw the young Denam as her former lover. She had spent every day in a foolish comparison of the two, where she saw all of his traits to be Hobyrim's. It was true, there were many similarities, but Ozma also saw the more striking differences between the two. She had been a fool to confuse them, even for a moment, but that did not make her desire for the Bakram any less real. Her brother had once called her mad; for a time, perhaps, she was. Perhaps she even remained so. But Ozma knew what she saw: whether or not Denam was the same as Hobyrim did not matter. They shared the same soul, the same emotions, reactions, touches, and even the same taste. She loved him just the same as the man she had lost, even if, as she looked back, she made a rather foolish mistake in the heat of the moment by calling the Bakram Hobyrim's name. Even if they were physically similar it was no excuse for her to make such folly.

"Sister, speak your thoughts." Oz's impatience got the better of him and he demanded, for at least the third time in the hour, that Ozma speak to him. Ozma released a light sigh that her brother mimicked, though her twin's was more in frustration at his sister's actions than Ozma's own weariness. In attempt to get her mind off of her terrible actions, betrayal was far worse than any murder she could commit in the name of her country, Ozma questioned her brother on their goal.

"Who leads the Front?" Ozma did not need the answer; she already knew. She should have killed the wench when she had the chance. The way Denam had touched her and spoke her name, the way the woman had reacted to him, that she had wanted to use her affection against him for her own gain. . .it sickened Ozma. Love was not something to toy with - she above all knew this.

"Bakram. Valkyrie. One Cerya Phoraena. Apparently, she is the daughter of the previous Archiereus, before Brantyn became Regent." His tone was dry and bored. Oz had always been good at memorization; she let him deal with the whisperers and shadows where Ozma dealt with the politics. Ozma had the subtler touch that her twin lacked. In that way, she and Balxephon were well matched, as much as it disgusted her. Balxephon would never be Hobyrim and no amount of respect for her family's honor would prove otherwise.

"Cerya." Ozma spat out her name as if it was the filthiest thing she had ever tasted. The venom in the one word rivaled all that Martym had said in the last two years alone. It earned her an odd look from her twin.

"Yes." was all he said. He seemed amused at his sister's hostility.

"Cerya." Ozma repeated. The venom and disgust were gone, but it was replaced with hatred and promise of pain.

Oz continued to stare at his sister, a light smile on his features. "Is there a problem?" He toyed with her, as he obviously enjoyed the reaction he received. Ozma so rarely played along with his games, but in this she and her brother were of one mind.

She smiled. "Not at all." She looked to Oz and her smile grew. Though she was the higher ranked of the two, she very rarely used her power over her irrational and foolish brother - but she also never gave him free reign. That was far too dangerous; but in this case, her brother's habits suited her perfectly and were entirely what she needed to lighten her spirits. "The Fort is yours, Oz. Do what you will with its inhabitants so long as Prancet is dealt with."

Oz raised an eyebrow at his sister's words but in response gave his sister a quick kiss on the cheek in appreciation. Ozma's smiled warmed as she looked to him and then back at the fort that quickly approached in the distance against the horizon. Once she dealt with the witch, Hobyrim - Denam -, would be all hers.


	25. Promise: DenamVyce

On multiple occasions, by more than a few of my friends and acquaintances, I was requested to write slash (Male/Male). It's been a long time coming, and it's certainly not exactly what I'm sure people were hoping for, but here it is.  
>I'm actually terribly worried about this piece, I've no experience in slash that is not femslash. Don't expect anything sexually explicit or even romantic in the "traditional" sense – thought it's certainly quite sweet.<p>

This story takes place in 4C, Denam and Vyce. I hope your alarm bells are ringing already.

_It was two days before I learned of the execution.  
>. . .What could I have done?<strong><br>Promise**_

* * *

><p>Port city that it was, Denam's memory of Golyat was filled with water. It was not that he swam in the sea often, no - the ports bustled far too much for that - and his father's lessons had always lasted through much of the day so that he did not have the time to play, nor did it rain continuously or flood. The once-large city had multiple small passages that allowed seawater to flow in and out, and small bridges that crossed over them, so anywhere one traveled in Golyat it was impossible to escape from the vital fluid and even long destroyed the water flowed beside the roads, the only sound beyond the waves against the docks that a visitor would hear within the city. The sky of Golyat was a constant, cool grey with dark clouds and there was almost always a chill breeze. Not as chill as the heights of the Brigania Flats, surely, but the sea air and its accompanying fog molded Denam on a subtler level as he had grown into an adult. Sunshine was not taken for granted, as it was surely the best to play and work in, and it was easy for him to see the difference between a simple overcast and a day that would rain. Denam had once been fascinated by the way the weather and the sea interacted, though he never quite spent the time studying their relationship as much as he would have liked and after Golyat was attacked he gave up that hobby as his mind focused on the more important survival of his friends and family, revenge, and the Walister Resistance.<p>

In the basest sense, the city remained unchanged, even well over a year after the massacre of its citizens at the hands of the Dark Knights Loslorien. Those corpses that had not burned _that_ night were long since gone from the streets, be them buried by Denam and Vyce's hands, stolen away by brigands who were no better than vultures who preyed on the dead, or eaten by the wildlife in the area. Denam knew it was his imagination, but he could swear he still saw vague shades of blood over the uneven cobblestone roads. Impossible, of course, for the rain and humidity would have long since removed any remains, no matter how dried. The Bakram vividly remembered the first time he had walked out from his place of safety, hidden in a basement in terror as he heard the screams from above, along with Vyce and the pools were not simply the product of fantasy within him. The twisted bodies, cut apart and broken, burned and melted; it was still the worst butchery Denam had seen. Denam had long since grown strong in the face of such mutilation, but the memory of his weakness was as fresh as the day it had happened.

If Denam chose to open the door to any particular house, he knew he would have found the now-dilapidated buildings to be empty. Thieves and raiders had long since taken everything of worth and Denam and Vyce pillaged all of the edible food in the city less than a scale after the attack. Rogue spirits often wandered the homes, Denam knew. He and his sister had done their best to still and calm them, they even Exorcised some, but after Catiua had gotten badly hurt one day, Denam and Vyce had refused to allow her to assist and none of them were experienced enough to safely deal with angry spirits. Denam had no skill in exorcism, so he had simply beaten them into submission; in truth, it was he and Vyce's first true experience in battle: against their own friends and mentors, to find the rare food and shelter they do desperately needed in the harshest time of their lives. It built Denam into the man he turned into – for good or ill.

As if the land itself was cursed, no plants had grown through the fallen city. Though the well-traveled roads would be ruined by an overflow of mud and dirt within another two years, they were not pushed up by the roots of trees, as he would have expected. All of the trees that had flourished in the outer city were long burned away and dead. Denam eyed the remains large fruit tree near his father's church as he approached. It had been spared the wrath of Loslorien, but it, too, suffered the fate of whatever curse lay within Golyat. All that remained of the once majestic giant was its trunk, some brittle bark, and its top branches, naked of their once vibrant leaves. The young Bakram had many memories under that lone tree. He would play, or argue, with Vyce and his sister, and his father would often give his lessons when the days were warm enough. He remembered Catiua would pick the fruits off and once attempted to make them into a pie, inexperienced cook and all. The result had been a disaster, but none of them had wanted to tell her otherwise, for she had put her heart into it. Denam sighed and shook his head as he forced the memory away. Those times were gone, the world was a different place, and none of them were the same any longer.

Denam pushed open the large double doors to the church had grown up in. The church was one of very few safe havens in the abandoned city and though Denam, Vyce, and Catiua had been unable to live there when they were in hiding for the year after the attack, it still held a warmth and familiarity of the years he spent inside. Denam's memory flashed as he once again saw the warm candlelight and his father as he read the words of Philaha; Denam hadn't known at the time, but as he looked back, there was a sadness within his father that only dissipated when he saw his young Denam and Catiua. The sunlight still made fine patterns on the ground as it passed through the high stained glass windows; Denam was amazed they, too, had not been stolen away, for quality stained glass was expensive. Denam breathed deeply and pushed the memories away once again, but they continued their unbidden return as he passed through the entryway. All of that was past, his purpose in the broken city was not simply to reminisce.

The Bakram walked quickly through the halls, large travel pack in hand. Denam had little time to himself in the midst of war, but as the army prepared itself for its largest assault yet, Denam had slipped away for a few days when he made absolutely sure preparations would be acceptable without him. Denam did not return to his hometown to simply see it one more time before his next dangerous battle, no, there was a far more important reason he returned to the place that put events into place. Denam's boots kicked up dirt and dust as he walked through his former-home and pushed open a door that led to the far back of he private quarters, where the public was not allowed – even Denam had only ever been permitted entry once or twice. Denam's father, as Abuna, had been tasked to care for the bodies of the dead before their last rites and their body and soul were given to Philaha, in official sense. Because of this, Prancet had a small area underneath the ground of the church where he would guide the spirits of dead to the peace they deserved as children of the Great Father.

Denam pushed open the doors that led to the dark, damp, unused underground areas of the church. There were no rogue spirits here, but Denam still felt a quiet chill within him. He mocked himself internally for his own terrible hypocrisy; it was he who disturbed the spirits and not the other way around. He should not fear peaceful spirits that he knew watched him, yet still Denam's eyes turned down as he continued his cautious walk through the catacombs; it was they who should fear him. His father likely rolled in his grave.

At first glance, the small expansive underground was abandoned for years. It was not a cave, or even like the more expansive catacombs found in larger cities, truly, but more a basement used for religious rights. Denam had always thought it felt like a place where vile ogres would live as a child, or a haunted area with ghosts and skeletons. As he saw it now, he smiled at his foolishness; he had seen the latter and his father's workshop was nothing like the young child in him once imagined. It had been well-cared for by his father, and it was cleaner on the lower levels than the upper, with its large stone slabs that once were used to lay the fallen upon. Denam lifted his torch up to the large, half-burnt candles that lined the long walkway in order to provide light to even the darkest corners of the room. Upon closer inspection, an inquisitive intruder to this sacred area would see that it was not nearly as abandoned as it first appeared. The candles were used recently, and there were bootprints in the thick dust that coated the floor. On one of the large stone blocks at the end of the room, hidden off to the side, was a broken body, half-decayed and worn at by time under rot. On the slabs nearby, neatly organized with brutal efficiency, were the limbs and organs of the fresh dead. Many of the organs were in bowls, buckets, or covered in large vellum.

Denam approached his goal with newfound determination. He placed his pack on one of the empty slabs nearby and doused his lit torch in the nearby water. It had taken his shadows almost two scales to find him the book he desired, and it had taken him even longer than that to persuade Cressida to teach him what he needed, but the culmination of Denam's research was about to show itself. To preserve the bodies of the dead with no soul in them was easy and was the first thing he had learned in his newfound profession. Lodis had turned it into an art; they did not even need the magic to do it any longer, but Denam lacked any of their ichors and magically-induced herbs and had to do stop the deterioration on his own with his Dark magic.

One of the first lessons Denam learned was the accuracy of Nybeth's dilemma: if he revived the body, the soul faded; if he returned the soul, the body rotted.

So Denam did what the young revolutionary did best: he changed the rules to better suit him. Bodies were easy to come by, if one knew where to look or had enough Goth to afford them. Souls, precious souls that were close to him, were much rarer. There were countless souls Denam had used in his trials to master Cressida's lessons, but they were nothing, Denam mourned their loss at first, saddened at how many lives he had manipulated, but he eventually strengthened himself against the guilt, just as he had with deaths in wartime. Their sacrifice had been for Denam to learn how to extract a soul from a fallen body with no harm or damage come to it. Cressida had refused to teach him, just as she had refused to show him how to place soul back into a body, so he had. . .acquired books on the Necromatic arts that served him well in her place. Denam instinctively pressed his hand against his pocket, where a small phylactery remained. It was the Bakram man's most prized possession, even moreso than the stunning blue necklace that matched his sister's red, the gift from his father.

Denam did not butcher and mutilate bodies for his own twisted desires. He understood Nybeth now, yes, far better than he would ever care to admit to anyone. "Research" was truly what the man Denam once called "twisted" and "evil" performed; but unlike the elder Galgastani, Denam's research was completed. His was a goal far simpler than immortality or ultimate power, or whatever that madman sought; he wanted what even the most advanced Necromancer struggled with: perfect revival of both body and soul.

The answer to Nybeth's puzzle was remarkably simple and Denam wondered why it had not come to him immediately. If Vyce's body rotted but his soul remained stable, Vyce had always been a stubbornly strong one – his soul had been unharmed, even tortured as it was, could he not just modify the body to accommodate the soul? Vyce's body was in pieces; it had long since began its latter levels of decay. When he had fought Nybeth on the very streets of Golyat, Vyce's body had been healthy enough that it could still attack with only a modicum of Nybeth's magic imbued within. After all, 'twas only his neck that had been broken, his other parts had been left intact. The Bakram people were far too religious to damage the body after death and they had simply thrown Vyce's body out, or so it seemed. The decay on Vyce had been natural; his skin fell off, grayed by the lack of blood flow. The eyes had been one of the first things to go as they lacked hydration and were soft and easy to penetrate by the creatures. Even now, Denam worried he might not entirely give Vyce back his sight, for there so many connections and the removal of the eyeballs from a host damaged them far more than it did any other part of the body, no matter how carefully done. Nybeth's revival of the Walister man had been a blessing more than the curse Denam had originally thought. Once a member of the undead, the small creatures, maggots, worms, or whatever other foul things that hosted themselves in corpses, fled in some baser fear, a primal terror that they should not remain in the body of some _thing_ so unholy. Vyce's body had been yet more damaged in Denam's battle with him and, at the time, Denam had no intention of learning the Necromatic arts to save him. That came later. Still, Denam had only done his best to incapacitate his already-dead best friend, because he had not wished to cause a man in agony yet more pain. It was an unexpected foresight that had worked in his favor, as the Walister had taken no unnecessary damage and was still repairable, to some extent.

Denam had been unable to bury his friend. He had asked Olivya to give him his last rites, and she had without question, but when it was Denam's turn to cover body in the dirt of Golyat near his friend's mother and father, he could not. Denam had broken down, slammed his fist into the ground in a bout of frustration and collapsed in a weakness he allowed no others to see. For the second time in as many scales, Denam had broken down into tears he could not force away. So many lives had been ruined by the war, so many pointlessly taken, so much desperation and corruption. Vyce was just another tool, discarded and thrown away after he did what he believed best. So Denam turned away from the grave; Vyce's body was heavy and difficult to carry, but he brought him to the only place he knew: his father's church.

It was three days later before Denam made his mind up. It had been a silent, hidden obsession for him. He had broken his promise, he had abandoned not only his sister, but Vyce, how many more mistakes would he yet make that he could not fix? How blind had he been? Denam swore he would make it right again. Means, ends, none of that mattered to Denam now; he could admit he held some great hypocrisy in his abuse of the dead, and no amount of apologies would suffice to clear him of his crimes. He vividly remembered Vyce's broken look, how his mind came back from its rage and anger, how, at the last moment of his existence he had cried in pain and fallen, and, worse, begged Denam to save him. Even as the memory surfaced, Denam clenched his fists beside him and damned his weakness and inability to save even one person and damned his weakness yet again for what he had turned into.

Denam walked over to the body of his best friend and ran his hands over the remains of his flesh. It was almost gone now, only a thick leather that clung tightly to his bones. His hair, once shorter than Denam's, had fallen out in clumps alongside his scalp and only a few strands remained. Vyce's jaw was forced open, as if in perpetual scream, and his hands were clenched as if he wanted nothing more than to hold a weapon and fight against whatever he saw, with the deep holes that used to hold his eyes, in the afterworld. Any excess flesh had long since decayed away, his lips were gone, his cheeks were little more than the bones of his skull. His ears had fallen off entirely, only hollow holes in their place. Denam could list all of the defects with Vyce's corpse, it had been necessary to get intimately close to the body in order to see what he needed from the fresh bodies. It had taken him almost a full week alone, underneath Golyat, to finally use his multiple books on anatomy and Necromancy to name every tissue, organ, and system that he needed to repair and take from the recently deceased. He had been cautious, at first: Should he remove the arm from Vyce's body entirely, or simply move the flesh and muscle onto Vyce's already existing bone? In some cases, he had no choice but complete replacement, intestines, heart, lungs, bladder, anything that was vital to his existence had long since faded and needed to be transplanted. Fortunately, they were also the easiest to move; Denam had already taken the vital organs from one of his many bodies he had acquired and had his magic over them to keep them preserved and healthy. Even has he stood by Vyce, the fresh, young heart - Denam made sure it was from one no older than twenty - beat steadily in a small bucket filled with a mixed solution of water and magic drought and pumped the fluid through its chambers in place of blood.

In the end, Denam had opted to replace Vyce's broken body with an entirely new body. It would still be "his" body, to some extent, and with Dark magic Denam could modify the new parts to suit Vyce's old appearance took shape underneath - a simple permanent glamour if he had issues with that would suffice until he became effective and experienced with this type of revival. If the new parts decayed - and they most certainly would - Denam would be able to replace them, even if he had to kill Vyce again to do so. The thought pained him, but Denam knew he could make any further death painless with a simple release of the power that bound his soul to life; to Vyce, there would be no distinction between the living and dead beyond what felt like a moment of light-headedness.

Denam kneeled by his sack on the ground and pulled out a small bottle of alcohol and a small scalpel. He poured a small amount of the alcohol into a nearby bucket and removed his shirt and gloves. He could not have an infection fester in Vyce's newly reconstructed body. Denam brushed his hair back behind his ears and then dipped his hands and his scalpel and dagger into the alcohol before he dumped the bucket to the side and poured more of the alcohol into a bowl, which he placed a thick cloth, and his newly cleaned dagger and scalpel into.

Denam walked over to his efficiently organized collection of body samples and chuckled to himself. "Vyce, Vyce, Vyce, you always get yourself into the worst situations." Best start with the reconstruction of his body mass. Flesh, fat, muscle, they were meant for protection. Denam had decided that he would remove the original bones all together and replace them with healthier, new ones. It would save time, which Denam desperately lacked, and there would be less room for error. Denam was not skilled enough in either the arts of Light or Dark to fix damaged nerves from a simple mistake. If such an error occurred, Denam would have to put even more of a constant stream of magic into Vyce to fix it, a permanent drain on his ability until Denam was forced to replace it entirely. He picked up one of the arms; it was heavy and well built, cut off from the shoulder and contained the humerous, elbow, radius, and all of parts of a complete hand. It had been difficult to get the arms off of their host effectively without damaging the healthy bones and muscles, but Denam had eventually used his magic to cut through the flesh and bone of the nearby chest area. . ._what__ was __the __word __for __it?_ Denam didn't particularly care, for he had gotten the arms, both of them, off intact. He placed it next to Vyce's body, which was rolled upward to face the roof. Denam had long since cut off any of Vyce's clothes and instead walked back over to his dagger in the alcohol wash and cut the skin at Vyce's shoulder, what little there was, until he was able to remove the bones with his hands. He carefully placed the useless limb on one of the large stones behind him and laid the new, undecayed arm in its place. It was better for him to place to outer limbs before he tried to mend them together, as the mending would be an exhaustive process that could quite possibly make him pass out.

Denam treated the limbs, legs - upper and lower, the other arm, even his friend's new head which he had modified with his magic to appear like the Vyce he knew, with the utmost delicacy, as if they were the most precious things he had ever held. They might well have been. The internal organs still remained safely in their containers as Denam replaced Vyce's spinal cord, pelvic bones, and ribs with the newly deceased body parts. He matched up the new body parts as accurately as he could, but he had strategically chosen the bodies so that he would minimize error. The chest, ribs, spine, collarbone, and pelvis, along with their accompanying flesh, were a part of one central body piece. Denam was no doctor, not even a healer, so he could only look over the myriad of books on Necromancy and healing that he had to go off of. Mistakes for him would ruin everything he planned and he would have to start over; if that happened, he would not be able to finish with Vyce until after he finished with Brantyn and the Dark Knights. He wanted Vyce to share victory with him, for he deserved it just as much as Denam did.

Denam smiled as he worked as his mind went to an old memory. His sister once told him a story of an empathetic Necromancer; the man eventually went mad and built, from scratch and a multitude of body parts, himself a completely artificial human to serve as a companion. The story had horrified him as a child, but as Denam lifted in Vyce's new chest, careful not the get any dirt into the thoroughly cleaned tissue inside, he found himself amused. Perhaps there was a bit of that insane Necromancer from legend in him after all. All he needed was the dark, morbid laughter to pull off the act properly. As he thought on it, though, Denam compared the inaccuracies of the story's Necromancy compared to his own actions in reality. Denam had no need to sew together skin, muscle, or use Lightning magic to force the new body to raise itself and the nerves to awaken. Ridiculous, all of it. The revival magic would restore function to his nerves and organs, though Denam did admit it required a more advanced Dark magic to heal the flesh of the dead together - magic that, if used on the living, would damage the recipient considerably.

It took Denam more than two hours to put all of the pieces together. The human body was a puzzle more complex than any he had encountered; it gave him more respect for the healers he had always taken for granted. The pieces fit together perfectly, from the larger limbs like legs to the smaller, but equally important, eyeballs in their sockets. The iris was blue instead of Vyce's natural brown, but he hoped his friend did not mind the change; Denam preferred the blue, anyway. The head he chose was not particularly interesting, but 'twas Walister, he supposed even if Vyce never saw the way the base body looked, he would still appreciate the thought that Denam had chosen a Walister instead of a Bakram or, Philaha forbid, a Galgastani. Vyce would not have wanted it any other way; he would have died before he was revived by a Galgastani or Bakram – For that matter, Denam had to be sure his friend did not learn of his heritage immediately or he might well snap on him. Not that the young Bakram male would fear his Walister companion, for the Necromancer had complete control over their revived creations, but Denam did not wish to use that power unless he absolutely had to. He wanted Vyce to be the same man he used to be, not simply a tool of Denam's to manipulate as he willed.

Denam took a step back and dipped his hands into the alcohol once again. Once he started, he would not be able to stop until he finished. He had been underground for some time and the candles had burned down; they had another two or three hours before they were gone entirely. The air was stuffy and Denam was already exhausted from the organization, but he knew he would not have another chance; he already danced on dangerous ground with his prolonged "trip," another day would not be tolerated. 'Twas now or never. Denam released a long breath; he had long since gotten used to the smell of death and rot, but the air was thick and it pressed into him almost as much as his shame at his actions. He wished there was a window in the cramped area, but he knew there was no point in complaining about it. He ran his fingers over the rare, almost unique, book he had recently obtained. The parchments inside were well preserved and spoke of some of the greatest secrets ever discovered by the Dark arts. He flipped through the pages until he found what he sought: the body and "cell" - whatever those were, he had only heard abstract theories about their existence and purpose - restoration. The soul would come later, Denam first needed to mold the preserved body parts together and revive the invisible "cells" that held the body together.

The spell was complex; had you asked him even two scales past Denam would have denied healing possible with the Dark magics, yet as he learned more about Necromancy, he clearly saw its possibility with Dark just as he did Light. It was abstract, but not entirely foreign and Denam took a deep breath and released it to calm himself as he placed his hands near the body parts. He started with the chest cavity and what would later be Vyce's left arm. He imagined Vyce in his head, the color of his skin, the build, any marks he knew of. That would need to be molded into his body as he cast the first spells for it would not be possible later. Denam almost shook in mixture of fear and anticipation as he held together the pieces and channeled his magic within him. With a slow, precise control Denam allowed the Darkness to flow from his fingertips into the supple flesh. He could not feel it with his hands, but he felt the muscles and bones knit together under him. He held back his gasp of shock; perhaps belatedly, Denam realized the sheer power he held at his disposal, such power to remake life itself. It was over quickly and Denam breathed heavily at the exertion. Even the simple melding of manipulation of flesh to the appearance of his choice exhausted the already-tired Bakram and he could feel a light sweat on his brow. It had taken no more than a few minutes, but the process required such overwhelming concentration and large amounts of power that at the rate he went, inefficient as it was, it would take him all night before Vyce breathed again. Worse - if his calculations and research proved correct, he would need to do this every scale or so, once Vyce's body began to decay again. But the successive times would be easier, for the base would have already been built, to replace a leg, an arm, even the heart or brain itself, was easy in comparison to what he did this day.

After a few moments in quiet contemplation, Denam returned to his work. Though he quickly became used to the odd feel of his magic in Vyce's soon-to-be body, and the way the magic flowed through him, it did not get any easier. If anything, the longer he worked, the harder it became. Denam's willpower was extraordinary, but even he could not concentrate so heavily for hours at a time. As he rested against one of the stone slabs after another set of spells - the legs, arms, and head were all connected now - Cressida's dark words echoed in his mind, the words she spoke as she taught him her arts - the arts she abandoned in disgust.

"Can there be no rest for those he has raised?" Denam had asked after the horrifying battle between the Resistance and Nybeth. He had been in a foul mood and it had taken all of his will to not verbally assault the Necromancer Cressida.

"Even should they kill every man who ever wronged them, those who return with hatred in place of their soul will never know peace. There is no past for them, no future. They live forever in the moment of their death. . ." Denam knew it was far too late to worry about the young woman's words. He in too deeply to back out now. Denam would not allow Vyce to exist only for his hatred; the Bakram had the Walister's soul, Vyce would be revived as fully as Denam's ability would allow. The issue Denam worried about was memory; one of the theories in the healer's books was that memory was not intrinsically attached to the Soul - a blasphemy in some people's eyes - and instead the mind. Given that Vyce's mind was long since gone, eaten away or decayed, Denam did not know which, it meant that 'twould only be his soul in the man's body with perhaps the most important and influential of his memories, the ones that etched deeply into him and made him "Vyce," to guide him. Denam did not know how to feel about that, but Vyce's soul _was_Vyce; even if he had to recreate their relationship from the very beginning, it would be worth it. Perhaps Denam would even be able to share his own memories, if necessary. Was such a transfer possible?

It was not the time to muse or regret. Denam forced the thoughts from his mind as he approached the organs, each either wrapped in specially prepared cloth or dipped in a magical fluid for preservation. With Vyce's body mended to some extent, it was time to begin the most critical stage of his art. Denam kept his books nearby as he brought the organs to the nearby body. He did not wish to think he described it so crassly, but in some cases he almost felt as if he _stuffed_ the imperative parts into the body. The intestines were particularly difficult and time consuming as they were extremely expansive. Eventually Denam cursed himself and used his magic to place them properly based upon their anatomic structure, instead of by hand. Even with magic's drastically increased pace, the process was almost as lengthy as the entire time he had spent molding and healing limbs and body together, but was easy enough that it gave Denam time to recover even with the light drain.

Vyce's heart was last for the physical restoration. Denam lifted the delicate object from its solution and dried it as best he could. It pumped aimlessly, given life by the Dark magics, as Denam placed into the red and yellow cavity, underneath Vyce's ribs and lungs. Denam melded the veins and arteries of Vyce's body together with no little passion, for in some ways, it was the most elegant part of the process. The blood pathways formed a beautiful pattern that gave the young Bakram a new respect for the Great Father's creations. It reminded him of the twisting creeks and rivers that flowed through Valeria and out into the ocean. The blood was easy enough to transfer into the veins once Denam had healed and merged them together, from the very tips of Vyce's toes to the deepest recesses of his brain. But as the heart beat the new blood through, it lacked the oxygen necessary to sustain the body without the constant drain on Denam's power. Denam could feel the weight immediately on him and his own breaths were heavy as he finally placed his hands over the large, open cavity for the final steps of the process. It was not rushed, though Denam felt some need to hurry at how much strength it took to hold together the spells. He had begun to chew some of the native Valerian plants that quickly restored his Magical power, but he worried he would overdose on them and end up collapsed, or ill, if he continued to do so.

All was done in an instant.

Vyce's body was complete, all of the connections fit together, the blood flow slowly turned the pale skin a light pink. It even looked like Vyce - or as much like Vyce as Denam could possibly manage, as Vyce's appearance was from Denam's memory alone. His body was well built, not burly, but muscled and lean. Vyce would likely feel a bit stiff when he awakened, but Denam had done his best to keep the limbs and muscles supple so that they would not be pulled or sprained by a simple act like a walk or even the swing of a weapon. Vyce's new heart drew breath into his body as if the body simply slept; Denam put his ear to his friend's chest to see if he could hear any deficiencies, but there were none, and the heart beat steadily and the lungs were clear. As it was, Vyce's body was perfect. Though he lacked thought, his body ran from its bases instinct, the brainstem, and was only capable of breaths and functions required for survival. It would not be until he released Vyce's soul into the body that he would be capable of being more than a husk – even if it was now a living husk.

Denam took the small phylactery out from its place in his trouser pocket and clutched it against Vyce's bare chest. Denam had broken every promise to himself, he had gone against his morals, and had turned away from everything his father had ever taught him for this very moment. He would be the first to perfectly reanimate the dead in centuries, if ever - it had to succeed! It _must_ work; if it did not Denam did not know what he would do.

Denam continued to press the powerful object onto Vyce's nude body and with the last of his Magical strength he pulled the precious contents out: Vyce's self, his being, his very soul. Vyce's soul was, in the most literal sense, in his hands for little more than an instant as he "placed" it with advanced Necromancy and some force into the artificially-created host.

He would not fail him this time. Denam would never abandon Vyce again. Vyce's face contorted in pain, then shock, then confusion before the man finally opened his now-blue eyes – Denam kept them that color even though he could easily have changed them at will - and his sleepy gaze stared at Denam, who stood above him, a rare, proud smile on his features.

"Good morning, Vyce."

* * *

><p>I am well aware of how unrealistic Denam's actions are in reproducing a body and at how unlikely he would have been able to do it at such a speed. But, given Necromancy, time travel, and ghosts exist in the TO world, I'd say crazier things have happened!<p>

Golyat's situation is a bit different and I've taken more liberties than I should have as an author who generally likes to stick to canon. In Chaos, Nybeth obviously fled there with his undead to pursue his studies, and no city full of people would tolerate this. The idea of a lonely, broken city, cursed by its fate, worked well for me.


	26. Broken: BalxephonOzma

This story was very difficult for me to write and I know this likely comes off as clipped and jumpy. In truth, I cannot do the scene justice with the fiction because it's a very subtle and powerful event already. This takes place in 4L, and is my take on the scene that occurs if you do not save Ozma.

My next few chapters will be short as Triad (now posted) is my longer work at the moment.

_**Broken**_

* * *

><p>"Ozma. . ."<p>

Balxephon's voice faded into the brisk wind as he stood alone with his fiancée on the docks of Heim. The woman did not return his breathy words, of course, let alone respond with any type of acknowledgment. After her earlier tantrum, when she had learned that Hobyrim still lived, Volaq had carefully brought the stubborn woman back, broken, beaten, bloody, some limbs held together only by the most tenuous of fibers that were mended together through emergency spells cast by Volaq's rare Light-skilled Templars. The Clerics, Bakram and Lodissian alike, had done a marvelous job in the woman's restoration, but only time would tell how truly she would recover. The once beautiful, graceful, Templar could not even eat on her own, though she could swallow, nor could she move to wash or clean herself if she accidentally spoiled her undergarments. If she was lucky, she would regain some function, perhaps even the ability to lightly communicate with finger taps or movement of the eyes. The Valerians were not the most skilled healers, but they had done what they could with Ozma and only the Wheel knew of what lay beyond for the Moh Glacius woman.

Balxephon stroked the side Ozma's listless face, hand ungloved, his rough, worn skin against soft, pale, new flesh. Perhaps 'twas only his imagination, but he thought he felt Ozma shake under him; more likely it was simply the body's base response to unfamiliar stimulus. Her nerves had been healed and restored entirely and with the amount of magic used on them it did not surprise him that they would respond so intensely; touch to Ozma's face was uncommon and would have easily caused the small tremor. The wind continued to blow between the two as they remained in silence together, Ozma in her mobile chair and Balxephon behind, as her guide, with a light grasp on her hand as he pushed her across the docks to the ship she would return to Lodis in. Very few had come to oversee Ozma's departure, by Balxephon's order. He knew she would not want any to see her as such, so in his deepest respect for the once-formidable woman, he had demanded all but those necessary to the preparation of the ship leave so that Ozma may enter her cabin undisturbed by the stares of the commons.

The duo remained alone on the end of the dock, only a few paces from the edge, as the native crew bustled about behind them, their vocal demands a backdrop and little more. Balxephon carefully turned his partner's chair out towards the sea, to give her a pleasant view of the waves as they broke against the land, of the seabirds in flight, and the bright blue sky, unmarred by clouds, just in case she could see or comprehend what she saw. Balxephon lightly brushed his fingers through Ozma's fine hair, cleaned with her favorite wash one last time, as the sea breeze blew it across her passive, emotionless face. 'Twould not be the first time Ozma had such a drastic change in her personality; the healers told him that due to the intense trauma to her brain and damage to her skull she would likely have some issues with her memory and cognitive function. 'Twas for the better, in this case, Balxephon mused. She would not remember what she had learned of Hobyrim – more preferable would be if she had forgotten Hobyrim's existence entirely. Balxephon had known Ozma for almost a decade, he had watched, quietly, as she had grown from a young woman into a powerful sorceress all of the nobles envied, in grace, manner, and ability.

The Moh Glacius and Von Rahms marriage between Ozma and Hobyrim had been political at first, for unity and consolidated power between two powerful families, but the two had quickly fallen in love beyond what their positions required. She had been a different woman then, one with such passion and devotion and love that even Balxephon's attention, usually so focused on his work, had been drawn to her. After the revolution, Balxephon used every contact he had in his power to keep Ozma's whisperers and spies from alerting her of the truth about his brother. Hobyrim had been stubborn and had broken Ozma's heart in the trial, when he had refused to serve Loslorien. None knew it then, but Ozma had fled the courtroom in shame, for she had used all of her influence to free the man she most sought to have by her side - only to have him turn her away. She had been heartbroken and filled with despair, for she knew the man not only rejected her, but chose death in her place like the stupid, stupid creature that he was. Ozma, too, died that day. Her smiles no longer reached her eyes, unless they were, very rarely, provoked by Oz; Ozma devoted her body and soul to the betterment of the land she loved and to strengthen her family and her Guild, which she would have inherited once her mother died.

Hobyrim had always been such a child; he had never grown up from his time in the Academy. All was so black and white to him, as if he did not wish to see beyond his own morality into the wider world of reality. Balxephon was seen as evil for his actions, yet how many lives had he saved with only two deaths of their parents? How many more lives would have been taken had Lodis continued its decay? The revolution secured a strong future for their children. Hobyrim would have their country torn apart from the inside, had he his way. His brother would start his own revolution, and yet more would die in the process. In his arrogance, Hobyrim believed his method was superior, yet in truth he was no different from his elder. Balxephon's hand tightened against the top of Ozma's wheelchair in anger at the thought; just as Hobyrim would destroy Lodis, so, too, had Hobyrim destroyed Ozma, not once, but twice over. She had given into her hope when she saw him alive in Rhime and had fled in attempt to find him, yet what had she found - naught more than herself broken upon Volaq's sword. Hobyrim never came; he abandoned her, just as he refused Ozma's assistance in court and turned aside Balxephon's mercy. He had torn apart the entire Moh Glacius and Von Rahms families in his ignorance.

Balxephon breathed heavily, the salty sea air unpleasant in both smell and taste, and forced himself into calm. His knuckles were white on Ozma's chair from his frustration. The Lodissian forced his anger down as best he could until it fell into a light rain from its former storm. When younger, Balxephon and Hobyrim had been very close in many ways, but they served as polar opposites in personality and ability. Though their strengths drastically varied, they also complimented each other as well as two sons of one of the most powerful families in Lodis could. Balxephon was less skilled in direct combat and preferred the diplomatic approach, or a focus on strategy. His preferred occupation often made him the villain - he had to make decisions others did not approve of and he was the one blamed for any deaths or failures. In contrast, Hobyrim was everything Balxephon was not, favored by their father, favored by his colleagues for his charisma and appearance, one who always remained honorable. Where Balxephon was harsh and coarse, aged well beyond his years from the stress of being heir, Hobyrim was soft and attractive - the most skilled swordsman in Lodis and, more, favored by their once-shared soldiers because of his loyalty, honor, and mannerisms. Even in their father's last moments he had looked to Hobyrim, not Balxephon. Perhaps 'twas a darker side of him, but Balxephon felt some satisfaction at his ability to take care of the woman Hobyrim had rejected. It had been one of the few personal battles he had won against his younger sibling. Only during his most morbid of moments did he think such, for he had long admired the beauty of the Moh Glacius woman; once she grown into the part, there had never been any other he desired. Of course, his brother had been the one to steal her away when Balxephon had spoken to their father about possible marriage between families, given their closer proximity in age, but 'twas Balxephon won in the end. Ozma was his and he would always protect her; he would not abandon her as his worthless brother had.

For he and Ozma, the misunderstanding and its subsequent result in Krysaro were a fresh start. Lodis had some of the best Clerics and healers that could be found, if anyone could save her from her sad reality, 'twas them. Perhaps someday she would smile or would share long, soft looks with Balxephon and blush with pleasure at the mention of their marriage in place of her former cool detachment and simple acceptance of the political union. At worst, and in truth most likely, Ozma would never move again from her chair without aid and would be unable to control herself in any way. The healers had spoken, with a ridiculous feigned empathy, that Ozma was still able to bear children, as if he only used her for an heir. It had disgusted him to the point that he had almost maimed the woman on the spot. Ozma was not a simple tool used only to produce children. As Ozma and he continued to stare over the sea, the Lodissian ran a hand down his fiancée's face in silent apology for the words that had been spoken to her, the soft flesh entirely unmarred by scars; the healers who slandered him had done a beautiful job in her flesh's repair - perhaps too good, for she was flawless, like a doll. Was she truly so unnatural, or was there more to her than the marionette of a form? Could she think? Did she suffer pain? Was she upset at what had befallen her? Perhaps 'twould be better if her mind was blank, just as broken and battered as her paralyzed body, for a woman in her state not deserve the cruelness of sentience.

From behind, Balxephon heard the steady footsteps and the ring of armor that he knew to be Volaq. Had the High Champion not stopped him, Volaq would have more than a piece of Balxephon's mind, but a spear through his neck for what he had done. No matter how foolish and irrational she had been, Volaq had no right to beat his fiancée as he had done; a few simple spells would have sufficed, no matter Ozma's skilled resistance to them. She had been desperately outnumbered, she could not stand against them all. Volaq not only dishonored Ozma, but also House Glacius, Balxephon, and Loslorien with his actions that bordered upon Barbas' brashness in Rhime. Ozma would have returned to Heim; she was a rational woman, especially once she saw how Hobyrim remained with the man who killed her brother. Balxephon turned around to glare at the other Dark Knight, who seemed to speak with the ship's captain for whatever reason before he turned back down to Ozma, her expression as blank as it had been ever since she first awakened after the _incident_.

"I will return as quickly as I can, my love. When we finish our duties here, I will take the first ship to Lodis and we will be wed, as I promised." Balxephon ran his hands through her hair again and massaged her scalp gently. Her hair was as thick and beautiful as it had ever been, though it was now parted at the center instead of the side. As he looked down at her, he saw that her mouth, lips still full and supple, had fallen open, and some of her spittle fell from the corner. Balxephon felt a rare, prolonged pang of sadness within him at the fate the woman he loved had to endure; perhaps if she had not been so stubborn and had simply stayed in Lodis like he had begged her in the first place. . .

The Templar let the thought die. No, he was much at fault as Ozma. If he had told her the truth, she would not have run off so irrationally. He and Oz could have sat together and convinced her of the way of things, then she would never have been polluted by Hobyrim's sudden 'revival' and she would have remained in Heim beside him. In his regret, Balxephon moved from behind his fiancée and kneeled down beside her; he grasped her cool hands in his and lightly kissed her cheek. Her flesh did not respond to him, as it had done earlier, as he brought his lips to her mouth and removed the excess saliva. She tasted as she always had, she looked as she always had, yet not even Oz would recognize her as the same person had he still been alive. Balxephon lightly leaned his cheek onto hers as he mused. Ozma had been his company for so long when on assignment that he knew he would be lonely without her. Ozma's hair blew against him as he remembered, still in their gentle embrace, the way she would be subtly annoyed whenever he did not heed her, how she would always walk through the gardens and reveled in their beauty – a softness that she would never reveal to anyone, but also hid badly - as she would lean down and smell each flower that she loved; her favorites were a small white species that bloomed year-round in Galius. In his mind, the flowers were a distinct part of her - her room, the one time he had entered, and Ozma herself, always smelled of them. When he returned home, Balxephon would need to pick the flowers in her place, for he would certainly not allow the servants to do something so special for his soon-to-be wife. On the isles, she openly spoke her mind to him, her worries, her fears, and, for that matter, whenever she felt Balxephon was being a fool or irrational, it was a part of what made Ozma who she was. He would miss her warm welcomes, their meals together, and her purity, even if often delusional.

Balxephon released Ozma's hands and placed them together on her lap as he stood. 'Twas not as if she was dead, he should not think such morbid thoughts. Without another word or sweet touch, he moved behind her chair and pushed Ozma onto the large boat, over the deck. If any shipmate stopped to look at the woman in shock, Balxephon glared until they turned away and pretended they had other business to attend to. Ozma had the most expensive ship that Balxephon could acquire on the backwater island, with the best room and multiple guards; if pirates were truly an issue, as the captain spoke, she would be well protected. Her chamber was large for such a ship and was open, with only a table in the center. The tallow candle on its top remained unlit and Ozma's few belongings, and those that remained of Oz's, were in the corner near her bed. The room was dark and cool, but not unpleasantly so. She would be comfortable here; there was not much to entertain her, but she did not need it. The trip to Lodis would take some time, he hoped her attendants would be up to their task. He paid only the best and he hoped that the women he chose would not harm poor Ozma, defenseless as she was, in annoyance. 'Twas common for caretakers to abuse their patients, especially when they could not fight back. Given the Valerians and their lack of honor, he worried for his fiancée's safety; he had given orders for her to be returned immediately to his manor, not her family's, so that she would be properly cared for.

He looked down on the broken woman one last time before her journey; she remained just as impassive as ever, perhaps words would never again grace her lips, but a part of the his mind told Balxephon that she could see him, even if she had no way to acknowledge his presence. In a rare moment of romanticism, Balxephon again took his fiancée's hand, still far cooler than the air around them, as he rustled through his robes. He took out a small box that he always kept with him and placed it on her lap, open. Inside the box was the small ring that was a sign of their engagement; Ozma did not wear it unless she dressed in her informal clothes, so it had been off when she fled Heim. Balxephon took the ring and placed it back onto her finger, thin, with nails that had just started to grow, where it belonged. He kissed the top of her hand and took back the box before he turned away and walked from the cabin. He could no longer face her, his last words only barely loud enough to be heard: "I will always love you, Ozma. Never forget that."

If all continued on its path, as the whisperers spoke that Denam had taken the Princess and Barnicia and put the High Champion to route, it would not be long before he could rejoin her. These isles had been a disaster from the very start, their losses insurmountable – not only from a personal standpoint, but also a political one. He had been forced to a public confession of sorts, Volaq was too strict about justice to let it pass once they returned, Moh Glacius would withdraw their support of Loslorien entirely now that one of their heirs was dead and the second was unrecognizable, and they would most certainly lose the favor of the council and be unable to act as they wished. He certainly hoped the High Champion had some plan, for Balxephon could see very little way for this to end well for them. Even still, he could not give up, no matter how dark the situation turned; Balxephon had reason to fight. He loved his country just as much as the Valerians loved their pitiful island. He could not lose, if not for himself or his country, but for the beautiful woman who awaited him at home.

* * *

><p>Does Balxephon love Ozma in canon? I don't think we've enough information to judge. But for the sake of a story like this, I thought it easier to swallow if he did, even if I've put forth my own reasons for how the love originally started and could have been influenced by Hobyrim.<p> 


	27. Shadow: OzmaOz

In Chaos, if you kill Oz and Ozma at the same time they've new dialogue together.

_**Shadow**_

* * *

><p>Hobyrim, I come to see you once more. I hope your arms are as warm as I remember.<p>

"Sorry. . .sister. I've. . .failed you."

Where does your voice come from, Oz? I can't see. It's dark. Don't make a sound such, how you hold back your tears. It is loud all around, but you are all I hear. Your breaths come slowly, but more steadily than mine - had I the skill, I would give you the life I have left in me. I know you share the same thought, foolish brother of mine. You're warm, but I can't feel you. It tingles. No Oz, you didn't fail me. How could you have? The fault lies on me as much as it does you.

"No, dear brother. We are. . .two parts of a whole. It is I who. . .failed you."

There you are, I can feel you now. You're wet, but what do I touch - is it tears, or blood? Do not twitch so, you're going to use up your strength. Or is it I who moves? None of it matters anymore, we'll be as one in death as we were in life, I promise. It is not a sad event, the Great Father welcomes us. Why won't my mouth move to speak the words? Please, body, give me the strength to comfort my brother one more time. Please. . .please. . .


	28. Inevitable: LeonarArycelle

This story is an assemblage of short snippets that cover relatively unrelated events that occur pre-game regarding Arycelle, Leonar, and her brother and gives a look at the possible the relationship between them. This isn't meant to go over every time they interacted, just a few key ones, nor is it meant to really elaborate on the "hows" and "whys."

Information was gathered primarily from 2L and 2-3C, but I've still had to stretch it a bit. In 2L you learn Arycelle's brother's name is Sydney. There's no real path this story takes place on, but it might be appropriate to assume it's N or C, given the relationship isn't mentioned in L.

Please note that I did skip over the large time frame of Almorica's Galgastani occupation.

_**Inevitable**_

* * *

><p>She had a new title, or so she was told. <em>Thunder Maiden, <em>the young men of the Resistance called her. Arycelle scoffed the name off, for 'twas a farce that showed she had gained some infamy in the eyes of her troops rather than something she was proud of. What made her 'Thunderous?' Was it that the battle for Tynemouth, where she had stormed and raged and somehow, by some miracle of the Great Father, she and her Archers had been able to cut down the Galgastani despite the overwhelming odds against them? Unlikely - though perhaps there was some truth to it. More likely it referred to her personality, one that demanded instantaneous responses and her orders, which were bellowed loudly and demanded rapid precision only the best could offer. How nice 'twould have been if 'Thunder Maiden' referred to something simple, such as the speed her arrows destroyed the enemy. No, no, titles never worked as such; the appellation was meant as a mockery as much as 'twas a symbol of respect.

Arycelle walked alone through the bustling streets city of Almorica; with Ronwey's rise to power and the newly formed Resistance, the streets were filled to the brim with people, soldiers, refugees, and merchants alike, even as the sky was a deep grey and was obviously ready to release its rage. There was a chill in the air, but it was welcome, far moreso than the overbearing heat that had enveloped her in her recent battle in Tynemouth. She held her hair up above her neck and lifted her face to the sky to allow the cool breeze to touch her exposed neck. She ignored the annoyed sounds of the passerbys and simply savored the moment, a luxury she did not often have. Even having her hair down had become a rarity for her, as she kept it tied away from her face when she fought so a small moment, even one so insufficient as looking at the sky, held meaning for the Archer. After a moment, Arycelle lowered her face back down to the street in front of her with a deflated sigh and let her hair fall back down her back as continued her casual pace through the crowd in Almorica city. She had sent a missive to her superior through a messenger the day before, as soon as the battle ended, so she would not be expected to make an official report until tomorrow, so the Archer had the rest of the day to herself. It just so happened that the one day that was devoted to her happened to soon be filled with miserable weather. She almost pouted, for there would be no practice or shopping for her, but knew better; she would much rather be at home with her brother, near a warm fireplace and in good company than out in the battlefield when it rained. 'Twas a small sacrifice of personal time for comfort.

Like many other Walister, her family had fled under the protection of Duke Ronwey when he formed the Resistance. Almorica was crowded, far busier than her native Krysaro; despite the large size of the city, each and every house was filled to the brim with residents and their close relatives. With the burst of refugees, new houses were being built and the city had expanded well beyond its walls with remarkable speed, but the houses were incomplete and not resistant to weather. They had no fireplace, but they did provide beds and protection against the wind, if anything, yet they were all already claimed and occupied, many by large families who could not afford a new house in the city, or held orphaned children. 'Twas certainly better than in the custody of the Galgastani, at any rate, and Arycelle could not blame the young ones. More positively, trade in Almorica had increased tenfold and there were more merchants than ever, their prices competitive, and even the poorest of families could afford food and amenities, such as blankets and clothes.

Many young and impressionable youths who wished for a better island for their people, including both Arycelle and her brother, joined the Resistance and moved to Almorica. Most had started with no knowledge of war, of weaponry, of death other than the loss of their family, but all had learned very quickly the realities of war and what was expected of them. The Walister were not a weak people; they were stubborn, determined, and had a will to live. For many, the Resistance was the dream they had waited for – it gave them a chance for freedom of oppression and the ability to truly make a difference on the Isles. Arycelle was no different. She and her brother had moved to Almorica from Krysaro and enlisted as soon as they knew they would be accepted. Unlike her brother, who had spent some time with the city guard back home, Arycelle lacked any experience in battle and had not been permitted on the front lines at first. Instead, she had practiced and experimented. Swords, spears, magic, axes - they had all been studied at some point, for both knowledge of the weapon and to learn what she had particular proficiency with. Certainly, Arycelle was no master of the bow when she first picked up the object; in fact, many had laughed at her clumsiness. The Walister woman had never been known for her dexterity and when she shot the first time, she had barely been able to hold the large weapon properly, let alone hit the target. But a true Walister never gave up; she practiced until her hands bled and until she collapsed in exhaustion, only to get back up once she caught her breath and practice more. It took Arycelle more than three scales of continuous repetition every day before she had proven adequate and that she would not kill her allies. The young woman smiled at the memory; how her rivals viewed her now! They had been pretentious, condescending, and had told her she stood no chance at ever holding rank. Yet her persistence showed what happened when one rested upon their laurels, as they did. 'Twas Arycelle who held the rank, and they remained on the practice fields, empty and arrogant, their battles with their own incompetence rather than the Galgastani.

As Arycelle had risen through the ranks through persistence and stubborn refusal to give in, Sydney, too, gained popularity. Unlike Arycelle, who was hard and stubborn and progressed through sheer willpower, Sydney was open and friendly, but also willing to listen, a trait Arycelle could admit she often did not particularly share. Her brother had not been as inexperienced as she, and soon his skill had been noticed by the upper echelons of the Resistance. The day before Arycelle left for Tynemoth, he had come home in brand new armor, finer than all who lived in their neighborhood wore, paid for by the Duke himself. He had a bright smile as he spoke of how had been promoted to serve under Sir Leonar, Commander of the forces. Sir Leonar's troops were some of the best the Walister had, and she had never been more proud of her sibling, even if it meant he would be in more danger. A darker part of her was envious; Arycelle had command of her small group, primarily Archers and those meant for distanced battle, but she was still nowhere near the rank of her brother, who served the Commander himself.

As Arycelle pushed her way through the central portion of the residential area, which bustled with Walister more heavily than even the busiest market in the early morning, she was stopped by the loud echo of thunder in the sky. She blinked as it rumbled around her and she could almost feel the tenseness in the air; to the surprise of all around her, the Archer laughed in response to the sound. _Thunder Maiden. Not bloody likely. _Maybe she'd speak with a Rune Fencer or Valkyrie and have them teach her some Lightning magic, just to amuse the troops who had given her the name. The Walister woman continued through the dirt and much; the roads were still muddy from the last rain and Arycelle was a mess from her march back from Tynemouth, her trousers soaked halfway up her leg past her boot, covered in dried mud, and her face and hair were almost as dirty, the latter unwashed. She probably looked disgusting to those around her, but she didn't care, nor did any soldier who returned home. Let them judge. Even as she walked through the dirty bodies, the muddy streets, and took in the smell, a mix of sweat, cow, pig, fecal matter from the homeless, and mud alongside the crisp soon-to-rain air, Arycelle knew she would have it no other way. These people were who she fought for; they were normal, just as she had once been, and they were the future. They deserved their smiles, not the looks of fear and pain one often saw on those persecuted by the Galgastani.

The rain started almost instantaneously, no more than five minutes after the first rumble of thunder. From beside her, Arycelle heard the agitated voices of women and the dissatisfied grunts of men who were disrupted and stopped from any work they might do. As if by magic, all of the Walister in her residential area moved quickly in a rush to get warm and away from the water. Arycelle, too, increased her pace. Her house was not far; 'twas a small thing, not meant to fit more than two and definitely smaller than most other houses on the street. She and her brother has only been able to afford it after they'd been paid by Ronwey for almost six full scales; before then, they had lived in the barracks in Almorica castle when they had not been on the field. She and Sydney were lucky enough to have a house at all, else they might have ended up like those who came later and were forced to live in the construction area outside of the city walls. 'Twas a plain building, not particularly well taken care of because both of its occupants were away at war most of the time; from the outside, its only prominent trait was a small garden of herbs in the back that Arycelle used to make poultices and tea so that she did not have to buy them from the local merchants. Given some of the shadowy activity that came from having more people in Almorica, Arycelle was surprised that thieves had not stolen the plants in the time the house was left unattended; perhaps they simply did not know any better.

The Archer pushed her way through the front door with little more than a knock. She frowned; the door had not been barred in any way, Sydney was careless again. She shook her head, yet more to scold her brother about. Arycelle was soaked, even from the short time in the rain, and she was likely a disaster to look at. In the back of her mind, Arycelle was reminded, not of her parents, but of Abuna Donnalto and how he would admonish her every time she ran inside the church after a long time in the mud and rain; she had never been the feminine type, Sydney had been too large of influence in her life for that. Arycelle's hair was not completely wet, only its tips, for that she was lucky, and her top under her cloak thick cloak, as well as her undergarments, remained relatively dry, but her boots and trousers were a lost cause. Arycelle barred the door behind her and leaned down and unbuckled her boots and put them in the corner near the door; she would wash them later, to clean them when it rained served no purpose but to waste time. Arycelle pulled off her trousers and rolled them up into a ball. She tossed them into a corner, along with her boots; those would be cleaned after she had some time to relax and warm herself, perhaps after some food and rest. She removed her hat; the small thing served no purpose to her indoors when she was not on duty, and her thick gloves, specially made to allow flexibility, but also protect her fingers from the bow's twine. Both articles suffered the same fate as her trousers and socks. With more delicacy, Arycelle walked through the center of the room and lifted her bows off of her and placed it on the appropriate rack, which Arycelle noted held her brother's sword. As if to confirm her thoughts, from the room to her left, Arycelle could hear voices; she had expected Sydney to be at home when she returned, but she had not expected a guest. Perhaps he had finally found that proper Walister woman to court she harassed him about? She smiled and quickened her pace. She unbelted her dagger sheath and removed the leather strap from her shoulder that held her quiver, as she did such, she untangled the mess of armaments from her cloak, and tossed the latter into the corner with the rest of her dirty laundry.

Half-dressed, but far more comfortable than she had been moments before, Arycelle walked through the kitchen only to find the source of voices not there, as she expected. She looked around quickly, almost in worry, but nothing was out of the ordinary. It looked, and smelled, as if it had been used earlier in the day; the trash had recently been removed and there were some fresh herbs picked and placed in a bowl on a small table. As she looked the right, Arycelle's smile faded; on a small fire, unattended, was a teakettle that was warmed. _Mother _had certainly not taught her children such irresponsibility, 'twas up to Arycelle to set matters right in her stead. Arycelle walked over to the pot and very carefully pulled it from its place above the fire; she was displeased to find that there was no dirt that she could put the fire out – Sydney seemed to want to burn the house down! There was only one place her brother could be, as their small house was only three rooms large. The Archer headed into the last room, the guest chamber, head held high with a dark glare on her features.

"Sydney!" Arcyelle called out in the tone that had made her known as 'Thunder' as she stomped through the open doorway into the dining room, her voice filled with anger that spoke of an incoming scolding "What have I told you about -". Before she could take more than three steps into the room, she ran straight into something solid and hard, something that was not normally in her living room. Only her greatest of balance and practiced coordination allowed her to remain upright and not spill the scalding water over her legs and chest, but the breath was still knocked from her in shock. "Oof!"

The "thing" she ran into made a similar sound of discomfort and Arycelle realized it had not been an object, but a guest. The Archer blinked as she regained her composure. She almost dropped the kettle in shock two seconds later when she realized there was a male guest in her house and she had nothing but her top and her undergarment chemise that covered nothing more than her upper thighs. She made a low hiss, but 'twas too late, the man had seen it too. There was no point in modesty after what he had seen and Arycelle walked, with as much courage as she could muster, head held high with feigned pride, into the room and forcefully slammed the kettle onto the wooden table her brother sat at. The force shook the items on its top, but she did not care, her brother had made a fool of her, even if inadvertently.

"Ah. . ." Sydney coughed and looked away from his sister; they both knew she was far too old to walk around so bare, but it had never stopped her before – perhaps 'twas well past time she grew up. She had grown up with her brother, he had seen her nude on more occasions that she could count, it almost felt as if there was no point in her modesty. The guest, however, kept his gaze firmly to the side; at least he was something of a gentleman. Sydney's voice echoed quietly through the room, as if he held the embarrassment that Arycelle knew she should have felt. "Commander, allow me to introduce my sister, Arycelle." Sydney turned to his sister, but kept his eyes to the table as he spoke. "Sister, may I introduce Sir Leonar?"

_Commander_. . .Arycelle felt the color rush to her cheeks. 'Twas perhaps the worst person she could have run into, and unclothed, no less! The guest had the grace to be embarrassed where Arycelle was not, but even the Archer knew she had made an already-bad situation even worse with her brashness. If this man was Sydney's commander, then there was no question he was _that_ Sir Leonar. He was the very man who might well run the Resistance, as Ronwey had no hand in the troops themselves, where Leonar was the one who commanded battle strategy and formation. Other than the Duke and the nobility that backed the Resistance, Leonar was quite possibly the most important man they had. It amazed Arycelle that Sydney had been deemed important enough that he visit the Dania household. Such. . .normal interaction between commander and subordinate was unheard of; it seemed that Sydney had truly risen in importance in the Resistance. If Arycelle was not so mad, she would have given her brother a congratulatory hug. Instead the woman turned towards their guest, a false smile on her features.

"S-Sir Leonar." Her words were quieter than she intended and almost held a shred of shame that she did not feel. Perhaps some girlish awe of one's superior still remained within her.

"Arycelle. . .Arycelle. . . ." Leonar had a confused frown on his face, as if he recognized her name, but did not quite know it off hand. He looked toward her after a moment, and made sure to keep his eyes high and above her neck to remain appropriate. "You wouldn't happen to be the Arycelle who recently led the host in Tynemouth?"

"The very same." Arycelle raised an eyebrow. From the side she felt her brother look at her in surprise, but Sydney knew when to remain quiet – sometimes. She retracted the judgment an instant later when he spoke up; 'twas simply too much to ask, as her brother's obnoxious voice split the air between them.

"Sister," Sydney's voice held back laughter at the uncomfortable scene. "Perhaps you should serve our guest some tea and-"

Arycelle immediately turned to her brother and gave him a long, hard glare. He mocked her, she knew it, he knew it, and if she judged by the commander's amused eyes, 'twas very likely Sir Leonar knew it as well. He very openly poked fun at how she was not only a bad host, as she neglected her duty to the guest, but appeared before her commander in entirely inappropriate attire – or lack thereof. She might well have just given up her next promotion – if not been demoted from command entirely. Arycelle clenched her fists; Sydney could take care of his own bloody guest - if anything, he should have served _her! _The Archer stomped from the room in rage and humiliation. If that was her brother's vengeance for her short verbal assault about the teakettle earlier, he had most certainly made his point and embarrassed her three times over. Damn him.

* * *

><p>He was late.<p>

'Twas well past supper, a special one that Arycelle had prepared in hope that Sydney would return. With their increasing responsibility in the Resistance, it was rare when both Arycelle and Sydney were off duty, let alone both in Almorica at the same time. Word had been sent in earlier in the day that Sir Leonar was victorious in the field and would arrive later in the evening, but Sydney, who had been afield with him, never came home. As a rare treat for his victory, Arycelle cooked with all of the little skill she had in the art, not just a small meal of fruits, but she had went out and bought meats and ingredients for stews with a majority of her salary in order to prepare the best meal she was capable of. The Walister woman had waited for hours, in hopes that Sydney would return home safe, yet he had never knocked in that enthusiastic manner that always let her know 'twas him. Instead, the only sound in the house that evening had been the crack of the wood burning in the fire and the shallow, rapid breaths of the only inhabitant in the small, comfortable Dania household. The Archer hadn't said a word as her former excitement turned to dread, then to fear, and then to sadness as she came to the realization that her brother's luck might have run out and he probably was not going to return to her.

Arycelle did not respond to her body's demand of sleep; she remained at the table in the kitchen, face turned down at her hands, hair dropped around her and obscured the view of the corner of her eyes, as the Walister woman attempted to hold back tears. She was not a child, she did not cry. 'Twas war, Sydney knew what he got into when he joined the Resistance, just as Arycelle did. There was not greater honor for their family than for him to die on the path to their freedom. Even as she thought the words, she pressed her eyes closed as tightly as she could, until the lids shook from the pressure; empty propaganda, spewed by Knights and nobles to force the commons to fight for them. No matter the cause, death was still death. There was nothing noble about war, about killing. Arycelle had taken enough lives that she knew that, as did any soldier.

The food was long since put away, even Sydney's, and the tallow had burned down. The only light in the room came from the fireplace, which still burned only because Arycelle was awake, not from any chill. Their small house was not expensive enough to have windows, so the Archer kept the front door, no more than three paces from her, open to clear out the smoke. The woman had already done everything she could think of to amuse herself. She had washed her clothes, restrung her bow, and even mended the hole in her cloak that had been there for almost a year that she had not bothered to deal with before. She was fortunate she did not have an assignment in the morning, for she knew her work would have suffered at the expense of her sleep. Even as the hope drained from her, the woman kept her eyes, now half-closed in grogginess, on the door. Every once in a while, through the small crack, she saw a guard pass by, torch in hand; each time her hopes would raise, just a little, only to fall back down, crushed anew.

'Twas well over three hours into the new day before Arycelle knew she could not remain awake any longer. Her eyes continued to fall closed and her breaths came slowly and deeply in the warm, comfortable room. The exhausted woman pushed herself off of the well-worn couch that was the only furniture in the entryway and stumbled through the darkness to the fire, which had mostly burnt down to a few to only a few warm embers over the hours, and tossed the bucket of dirt over it to stifle it so that the house would not burn down as she slept. As she always scolded Sydney for his lack of concern about the fire, she would be a hypocrite not to take care of it, even in a half-dozed state. The Archer was far too amused by the thought than she should have been and giggled as she fell onto the couch. She was asleep no more than a minute later.

How long she slept, the Archer did no know, but the young woman was woken by a loud, persistent knock against the door –she had forgotten to close it, _damn!_ - and cries of "Miss Dania! Miss Dania!" Arycelle's eyes snapped open, fully awake from the tension and fear, her nerves on edge, breaths rapid. She clenched at the dagger she still wore on her waist, as she had not undressed before she fell asleep, and cautiously approached the open entrance. She could vaguely see the form outside from the crack in the door, as the form held a torch, but she could not judge anything about the intruder. The voice said the speaker was female, but she knew 'twas no reason to underestimate them. Arycelle stayed behind the door, hidden from view, knees bent in defensive posture.

"Who are you? State your purpose!" She hissed, all traces of her sleep gone from her voice, as her body ran on its adrenaline.

"Arycelle Dania?" The voice quieted as she knew she had Arycelle's attention.

"Speaking." The Archer snapped out, still tense. The room was pitch black and her eyes darted around to see if there were any other invaders, thieves or intruders that had entered while she rested. There were two things the woman would be at Arycelle's residence about if she was not a thief, namely: an emergency attack that Arycelle was summoned for and she was to report immediately, or, what distressed her more, any news about Sydney.

"Miss" _Here it comes. _Arycelle closed her eyes, suitably satisfied that there was no one in her home and willed herself strong in anticipation for the news she knew was to come. She could almost feel the wetness and blinked it away as best she could. "We've news on Sir Sydney."

". . ." Arycelle gulped loudly, but said nothing. She shivered, if not from the night chill than from anticipation and fear. The woman on the other side of the door seemed to await a reply, or at least for her to open the door and address her properly. Arycelle did not care what she wanted; the woman could stay out there. The back of Arycelle's mind scolded her for hiding her emotions behind rudeness to others, as Sydney would have.

"He was wounded in battle. He's in the castle infirmary" The Archer gasped in shock before she allowed a small smile to grace her features. She opened her eyes and allowed the few droplets she had desperately tried to contain to fall; Sydney was not dead! If he had made it to Almorica's infirmary from the field of battle, it most likely meant he would survive. "If you'd like, I will esco-" Arycelle turned around instantly and slammed the door closed. She barred it and turned around before she ran as quickly as she could through the small, pitch black house with touch as her guide through the familiar rooms. She did not bother with her boots as she pushed open her back door, in too much of a hurry to bar it, and ran around the house to the front. The Archer cried offhand thanks to the woman, apparently a Cleric if Arycelle could tell by her manner of dress and she sprinted through the darkness, the moon and torches on the houses and walls as her only guide. She ignored the wet, muddy ground that likely held other filth against her bare feet as she made her way through the alleys, dagger in hand in case someone tried to prey upon her. The Archer would not be an easy target, with her reactions and skill with the weapon, but as her rationality slowly returned with her heavy breaths, she realized that if someone tried to molest her, she would only be delayed, and time was something she did not have. The safer routes would be a longer run, but there was also less likelihood of an assault.

Even the more-traveled roads of Almorica were dark, but as she reached the mercantile district, there were frequent guards on patrol. The first three she saw drew their blades in defense and the Archer had to slow her pace and show that her hands were empty to pass, but she continued with a light jog, more controlled than her earlier sprint in order to not draw attention again. She was relieved when she finally passed over the bridge and was acknowledged by the guards of Almorica castle. Over the past few scales, Arycelle had become popular and influential enough that many of the castle occupants knew her, almost as if 'twas a dream. She had gone from a homely girl in an orphanage in Krysaro, cursed by Walister blood and the death of her parents, to one of the pinnacles of the Walister Resistance, well respected by those who followed her, even if she did not hold the highest of ranks and would never be known as a hero. She slowed her pace to a walk as the Knights opened the door for her and gave them a nod as best she could with her chest heaving as it did.

Compared to the pitch darkness outside, the castle was well lit, with at least four torches in every hallway, and many more in the more open chambers and passages. Every member of the Resistance knew where Almorica's infirmary was, as at some point they had all gone there. All of the Walister's best Clerics and healers remained in the same wing of the castle, which had turned entirely into an area for healing. Rooms that once held guests now held multiple beds for the wounded, barracks were turned into large rooms that acted as hospices for the soldiers who had no nearby home to rest in. If Sydney was being treated, he was likely in the main infirmary, which was in one of the large side halls converted into a medical facility and was monitored by Clerics of various backgrounds during every hour of the day.

For the late hour, or perhaps 'very early' was more appropriate, there were quite a few soldiers and Clerics about in the hall. It seemed Sir Leonar's unit had arrived later than expected, as Arycelle saw bandaged men limp to and fro, but most looked healthy enough, they probably went to bed to rest for a few days before the next assignment from their commander. Arycelle smiled at them as best she could, but she was too mixed with her own relief and worry about Sydney that she found she cared little about those nameless men she passed. It was cruel of her, perhaps, to be so apathetic, and she knew her brother would scold her for it, but Arycelle was not Sydney, she could not pretend to be. Though they shared many good traits - loyalty, strength, resilience, stubbornness - empathy was not one of them.

The infirmary did not quite bustle, nor was it loud, but there was a quiet hum of voices in the air as the Archer entered. Most spoke under their breath and there were many soldiers who cried out or moaned as the Clerics cleaned their wounds and used their magic. The room was very chill, with windows open to filter out the smoke and the smells of dirty soldiers laced in disease, dirt, gore and whatever foul substances that spread upon them after battle. If Arycelle was to explain the room to anyone, she would call it white: White sheets, though many held a deep red that was stained with blood, white clothes on the Clerics, white rugs, even white tapestries and curtains -'twas too much, bright, almost a mockery, as white would most clearly show blood and infection. Almost as soon as she took a step, the newly-arrived woman was set upon by a male Cleric.

"State your business." the man's voice was annoyed, as if Arycelle had interrupted him from whatever he had been doing. She bristled; _he_ had been the one who stopped of his own free will.

"I'm looking for someone. Dania. Sydney Dania." Arycelle kept as quiet as she could in order to be respectful and not disrupt the patients who rested, but her voice was naturally loud, and quiet words from her were often normal tone from others.

"Ah. . .yes." The man thought for a moment before he replied, his words cautious. Arycelle did not like it one bit, it set her on edge. "Please, follow me." As immediately as he appeared before he made his way through the room. Though he did not appear particularly nimble, the way he swerved around the other busy clerics was impressive. Arycelle was not nearly so graceful and she bumped into at least three people on her way through the room. The Archer was led to a busy corner, with at least three clerics around the bed. To Arycelle's surprise, it seemed her brother had another guest - Sir Leonar, who had a troubled look on his face. Arycelle pushed past the male cleric who led her to her brother and ignored Sir Leonar all together until she reached Sydney's side.

"Brother!" Arycelle's eyes widened as she saw her brother's condition. He had deep bruises all over him, and one of his eyes was swollen closed. His hair was matted with blood and his arms, legs, and chest were drenched in sweat, so thick almost as if he had bathed. The sweat served to cause dried blood to drip over his body, and the skin on his arms and chest was streaked red. His clothing and armor had long since been removed and he lay in bed in only some short undergarments that covered his private region, but even they were cut up his left leg to expose the wounded flesh of his thigh_**. **_As Arycelle's gaze was drawn down, she withdrew in shock at the sight that awaited her. Sydney's leg was gone. More accurately, the leg was still there, but 'twould not be used for scales, if ever again. Arycelle could tell the clerics had spent some time working on it, but she was still able to estimate what occurred. It seemed a very large weapon, a great-axe, perhaps, had hit the middle of his thigh and had cut all the way to the bone - not through, but deeply enough that a large chunk of flesh was displaced and the muscle had been torn apart entirely, but the wound did not stop there. It seemed he had been hit again, in the lower leg, but a smaller weapon - a sword or a large dagger - that cut all the way down, as if in mockery to attempt to prevent him from walking or escaping. The Archer shivered in disgust at the exposed white of the bone;_Galgastani beasts! _'Twas a miracle her brother had not bled to death, likely the only reason he was alive was from quick work done by healers on the field. He could yet succumb to infection, but, even in her horror, the woman had to be proud of her brother for his strength.

"Arycelle." Her brother's voice contained the same warmth it always held, but she could tell he bit back pain in order to soothe his younger sister.

"Sydney -" Said woman cried out. She resisted her baser urge to take hold of his hand and instead shook in terror as she looked over her brother's form, unable to act. "Sydney, what happened?" Perhaps 'twould have been better to ask his commander, who had moved up behind her, but Arycelle would rather hear it from her brother; 'twas not the commander who was wounded!

"Ha!" Her brother's laughter was forced and painful, but he still had a smile on his features behind the more obvious grimace. "Don't worry, this isn't mine." He did his best to motion to his chest; Arycelle assumed he meant the blood, but given the state of his leg, she found it difficult to believe.

"Sir, you musn't speak." One of the clerics who worked on him demanded. The women worked together, some cleaned, others held flesh, and all worked in their own way to repair the nerves and muscles to that he would, hopefully, not be permanently damaged.

"Brother. . ." Arycelle wanted to take a step forward to take his hand, but was stopped by the glare of the Clerics. On the bed, the Walister woman saw her brother wince, eyes pressed close and mouth open as he gasped in pain. Arycelle's fists clenched in anger, in hate for the Galgastani, and in sorrow at the sight of her brother. He released a low, loud moan and immediately he stopped his verbal responses. The change was almost immediate - or perhaps he had always been in such bad condition and Arycelle had simply not noticed it before. As the women manipulated the flesh on his leg and massaged the alcohol in, Sydney released a loud cry of agony and Arycelle turned away. She could face death, but the sight of her brother was too much. "Sydney!" She cried in time with him, her own face a grimace.

In an instant, another man was in front of her, hands on her shoulders. The Archer had forgotten Sir Leonar was behind her and as she had turned around she had not realized that she looked directly at her commander. Arycelle breathed heavily as the man kept his distance, but his hands, still gloves and armored, held her shoulders as if in some odd form of comfort, the most a Knight could do without seeming inappropriate. Had Arycelle been less upset, she would have pushed him away, but the man gave her space and his weight kept her from falling onto the floor as her body fell into exhaustion from her lack of sleep and the rush of emotion she felt when she had awakened. Only after so long did her adrenaline fade and she felt like she wanted to collapse.

"Arycelle. . ." To her surprise, the commander spoke. The woman looked up to the man who held her shoulders, his face almost as troubled as hers. ". . .the Thunder Maiden, isn't it? Your brother speaks of naught but you."

"Aye, for what it's worth." Speaking helped. Arycelle found herself calmed by the words, and she no longer felt so ill. It cleared her mind of the immediate weariness, but her body still screamed that she needed sleep. "You're Sydney's commander, Sir Leonar. We've met before. Twice." Arycelle's words did not quite mock, but they held the subtle annoyance she usually used on her troops. "What happened? You return and my brother is half-dead!" Though she knew Sydney's wounds were not the commander's fault, she almost wished he would take responsibility for Sydney's wounds so that she would have some outlet for her anger.

". . ." To her surprise, the commander averted his gaze and his hands fell from her shoulders. Arycelle's anger invigorated her, as much as it could given her exhaustion. "He spoke the truth - the blood isn't his." The man motioned with his head towards Sydney, who had fallen into unconsciousness. The healers had moved his leg a bit and Arycelle saw that the damage went far beyond the flesh; unlike her judgment earlier, it seemed his bone _had_ been damaged. 'Twas not shattered by the blow, but it might as well have been. "I fear he will never see battle again."

Arycelle turned entirely towards her brother again, and Leonar followed suit. "What. . .?" She could not bring herself to speak the words. She moved took a step towards the wall and looked on from the distance. The bone was still exposed and she felt her stomach churn anew, the short-lived anger replaced again with distress.

"He protected me." To Arycelle's surprise, Leonar's tone change. It hardened, but she recognized the action; the altered demeanor was meant to harden him, to protect his emotions and prevent Arycelle from seeing that he, too, was troubled by the events that had transpired. She used the defensive maneuver herself; it helped her appear strong when she was troubled or terrified. "We were desperately outnumbered. I would have been killed had he not taken the blow." Arycelle watched the commander's gaze as it fell on the large wound on his upper thigh.

"Brother. . ." Arycelle repeated again, the only word that she could bring to mind. Her strength left her and she slid down the wall, onto her knees and allowed her face to turn downwards toward the stone ground. _You will not cry, Arycelle - _but her body did not listen to her mind's order and small droplets slid down her cheeks. The Archer let her hair fall down over her shoulder to obscure the view of her face. Such weakness was not to be shown in public; with what little self control she had, the Archer stopped her body's shakes and sobs, even if she could do nothing for the tears that now flowed freely. She should be happy - Sydney was alive! Perhaps he could return home until the war was over and be safe. The thoughts did little to comfort her, as she knew he did not wish to sit to the side and have others fight for him.

Leonar had moved towards her again. For whatever reason, he stood above her and spoke, words quiet enough for her ears alone. What purpose did it serve for the commander to sympathize with her? Arycelle was not child enough to think that she and Sydney were anything more than simple soldiers in the elder man's eyes. He probably had countless men who would give up their bodies to save him. "Your brother may lose his leg, but all of the Galgastani on the field lost their heads."

Anger again flashed through the Archer and burned away the sadness. She was too tired to stand, but she snapped her face up, without care that her tears were visible and she snarled at him, incapable of vocalizing her thoughts. 'Twas not good enough. A few Galgastani heads would _never_ be worth her brother's vitality.

* * *

><p>Arycelle tapped her fork on the edge of her plate and glared at the young man across from her. Sydney refused to meet her gaze and instead kept his eyes on the bowl of soup that Arycelle had prepared for them for the midday meal. Though she had requested leave to care for her brother until he could care for himself - and truly, he had learned very quickly how to move about on his own, even if he had a very heavy limp – she had been able to do little. She had once been told, when she had been sad after her parents died, that the ability to heal was determined just as much by one's mind as 'twas one's body; Sydney proved the adage correct. The healers had done their best to recover his leg and, though he had not lost it entirely -the Clerics did not wield the power of miracles after all - they had not been able to entirely heal the bone. The most Sydney could do was walk about with most of his weight on a large staff that Arycelle had ordered for him. Almost three scales later, Sydney was still somewhat reliant, but the Archer had officially returned to her assignments. Every time she would come home, usually dirty, wet, covered in blood and muck and water, he would greet her with the same smile he always did.<p>

That was the problem. Though he would always smile and greet her, he often even attempted to give her a hug, his emotion never quite reached his eyes as it used to. At first Arycelle had not noticed it; she had taken his pleasure at face value before, one day, she saw him watch her stretch for her morning exercises He had a lost, distant look on his face, one of longing and pain. Arycelle knew, then, that he hated her - or perhaps not her, but what she was capable of, what she represented. He would always love her as a person, of course, but he loathed that she still held the ability to fight, something no longer could do, and he held back his spite because of it.

Arycelle knew what her brother wanted to say; he'd attempted to speak the same thing every morning but had not found the words or the strength to do so. He no longer wished to remain in Almorica. Perhaps he feared how she would react - a rightful fear, as Arycelle did not know how she felt about his plight and internal conflicts either. She wanted to pity him, but she knew Sydney would not tolerate it directed towards him; she wanted to help him, but there was nothing she could do. Arycelle was almost as troubled about the subject as Sydney was and she, too, had started to regret her actions, almost as if she had unintentionally shoved them in his face in mockery.

"I'm returning to Krysaro." Sydney's voice was quiet, barely above the soft rain patters against the roof of their shared house. He stirred his spoon about in the soup; Arycelle could admit 'twas not very good, but his disinterest had nothing to do with the flavor. The Walister woman kept her eyes on her food, as Sydney did, not sure how she was supposed to react. As expected, it had come down to this. Krysaro, the only home they had ever known; Almorica had suited them well enough, but no longer did her brother have a place in the Resistance. As if her brother read her mind, he continued. "I can't do anything in Almorica, but I can still help the Abuna raise the children and spread the word of the Resistance." He laughed, the sad, desperate kind, not one of happiness. "Perhaps I can even learn some magic, so I can protect the city."

"Are you sure?" Arycelle's voice was just as quiet as her brother's and, if she judged by his reaction, he looked up from his food and his eyes widened, he had certainly not expected such a passive response. She did not wish him to leave, but she could understand; were their positions were reversed she had no doubt she would have felt the same as he. Her baser, childish instinct, the one that was still the younger sister who wanted to be protected by her brother, wanted to clutch at Sydney and refuse, but 'twas a weak demand by a part of her that had long since grown. No matter what she wanted, she needed to do what was best for Sydney.

"I'm sorry." Still Sydney did not look at her. Arycelle raised her eyes and forced a smile onto her features. She, rather rudely, moved her arms across their small table and lightly stroked her brother's hand, as if to give him the reassurance he desperately sought.

"There's no need to be sorry." Arycelle stood and leaned over the table entirely, not caring if her hair dripped into her soup, as she lifted her brother's chin with her fingers, to make him look her in the eye. Her smile brightened as she looked into Sydney's eyes, as familiar as they always were; eyes that had held her and comforted her, yet that had scolded and taught. 'Twould be so hard to give him up, but he had his life to live; Arycelle would only have to fight twice as hard, for his sake. 'Twould be worth it. "I've been selfish too. I neglected to think on how you must feel. If you'd like, I'll go make a reservation on a guard escort to -"

"No need. I spoke with Sir Leonar already. He was the one who helped me make the decision." Sydney interrupted and lightly removed her hands. Arycelle withdrew to her side of the table and sat as she attempted to ignore the well of anger within. She had just finished telling herself that she did not control her brother's life, yet she still felt upset that he had not chosen to come to her about it. She detested her hypocrisy. "I wanted to tell you now, because I'm leaving tomorrow."

". . .I see." Emotion flooded through the Archer, so many at once that she could not pin down what she felt. Her mouth went dry and her words and thought faded into a blur. She had so much she wanted to think, to say, but she could not find words for any for it. One emotion stood out above the rest – "You seem quite fond of the Commander." Arycelle was jealous. She could hardly believe her childishness, as if she clung to her brother's leg and demanded he not leave her in the morning to work.

"He has taught me more than I can ever repay him for." Sydney had no intention of elaborating and instead he started to eat. His shoulders no longer slumped, but the air was still tense - or perhaps 'twas only Arycelle's imagination. Sydney seemed entirely obvious to her emotions and instead he seemed to simply enjoy her company in the comfort of their shared home. He had the right of things; 'twould serve no purpose for her to be angry that he had not shared his thoughts and plans with her, but she was still miffed. The archer was not child enough to bring it up, but she firmly believed that Sydney had repaid his debt to his commander tenfold. He had lost his leg and his purpose, his goals. It might well have been his life.

The silence between them dragged as Sydney ate and Arycelle hesitantly sipped on her soup. Her appetite was gone. She was emotionally going in circles, thoughts repeating over and over in her head, arguments and rationalizations and words she wanted to say but could not. Perhaps Sydney was correct in thinking she would be angry, but she was angry for a different reason entirely! She was glad he had made the decision to withdraw from the front lines, but she only wished he had spoken to her first.

"Enough of this dreary talk." Perhaps Sydney did not think the discussion was dreary, but the Archer most certainly did. "If you're leaving for Krysaro tomorrow, we must make the most of our time today!" Arycelle chose her words carefully. She wanted to avoid any implication that they would not see each other for a time, and dreaded to even think they would never see each other again The Archer ignored the confused look from her brother as she stood and pushed her bowl to the side. She gave him the brightest smile she could muster before she placed a light kiss on her brother's cheek. They only had a few hours left and she could not waste it being emotional. She wanted to have the most pleasant time she possibly could, and to make sure he remembered her happiness and smile.

'Twas not until almost a week later that Arycelle learned her brother's escort had been set upon by Galgastani and he had been taken to Balmamusa.

* * *

><p>Arycelle's first impression was that Sir Leonar's house was remarkably warm and well lit. Her last impression, as she stood in the entranceway, was that it felt far too bright, as it allowed the insightful man to read every emotion on her face. Leonar's house was not exactly what the young woman had expected and when she first entered she had almost laughed aloud at its disarray. Sydney had never been able to keep a clean room, let alone house, in his life, not that Arycelle was any better, but she had certainly expected the commander of the Resistance to be more organized. There was a fine dust layer over most everything, as if he rarely entered the house and instead spent much of his time in his room in the castle, and the floor of the entryway was muddy from the commander's boots. The rest of the house was more cluttered and disorganized than actually dirty, but Leonar knew where everything was - a disorganized organization, Sydney had once called it.<p>

"Thank you. . .for the dinner. I've not had a meal that large in years." _If ever._ Arycelle was not good at giving thanks and her words were uncomfortable and stilted, she was nowhere near a fine noblewoman, but her parents had taught her at least a modicum of manners. The Archer did not understand the commander's fascination with her; ever since her brother left the elder man saw her every other day, even if only for a moment or two, when she was not on assignment. Worse - and Arycelle _knew _she did not dream it up – it seemed that she was no longer assigned risky and dangerous missions. She had been given rather simple sweeps, kill a few Galgastani and thieves here and there, and patrols along the roads, almost as if he wanted to protect her. Even if Leonar felt remorse for what had happened with Sydney, Arycelle found it offensive that he would treat her as if she was a doll to be protected to make up for what happened. It had taken time, but she had come to embrace her title of Thunder Maiden and, if she must, she would damn well make sure that Leonar understood that she could make important contributions to the Resistance's cause. Her purpose was to kill Galgastani and free the Walister, not sit about and patrol the area around Almorica.

"You parents?" Leonar sat down on the nearby couch as Arycelle took her cloak down from the nearby rack and covered her shoulders with it. She was no 'proper' Lady; she did not need a man to lift her clothing articles down for her as she knew the Knight wanted to do.

"They were killed by the Galgastani." Her voice was flat. She was not offended by his question, but clearly Leonar was; he looked embarrassed and averted his gaze, as if he felt he had treaded into inappropriate territory. 'Twas no secret that Arycelle and Sydney were orphans, and though she doubted she would ever get over the pain of loss, she had turned her anger and hate into the more constructive determination and desire for a better future and, in the process, vengeance. The commander looked like he wanted to apologize, but seemed to think better of it, and changed the subject as gracefully as he could.

"Where are you staying?" Asked by anyone else, the question would have been offhand and curious, but the commander's tone was not only inquisitive but the Archer could have sworn she heard worry behind his feigned apathy. Pretend all he liked, Arycelle had seen enough of the man in the last scale that she recognized he felt _some_ emotion.

"My house, where I've always been. Why does it matter?" Arycelle looked up from her boots, not sure what he wanted from her, before she shook her head. She was simply over thinking matters and certainly could not assume she knew him well enough to read his every emotion. The times they had even spoken informally could be counted on both hands, after all.

"Listen, Arycelle" Leonar stood from the couch and approached her. He had a dark expression on his features, and the flickering light of the candles only amplified his firmness. "Stay here."

"You must be joking." Arycelle successfully kept the shock from her reply, instead replaced by a cool sarcasm.

"I'm serious. My house is large and, though it may be inappropriate for an unwed woman to share living space with an unwed man, you'll find that I do not come here often enough that it will be an issue." Arycelle almost laughed. He was most worried about how 'appropriate' it was to do such in the eyes of the public rather than how utterly outrageous his invitation seemed? Only with the commander would she have seen such foolishness.

". . ." She could not bring her mouth to speak the words of reprimand, of shock, of how ridiculous she felt the man was.

"Please." Leonar's voice was quiet and had lost all of its traditional firmness. She dared not think it was vulnerable, but damned if that was not how she would describe it. "I, er, Sydney asked me to protect you." The woman drew her brows together; she heard his mistake, but was unsure what it meant. He certainly held some hidden message, but it remained indecipherable.

"I don't want your sympathy, nor would Sydney wish for his sister to be treated any differently than the other soldiers." Arycelle bristled in annoyance. Many had died in the war, not only her parents. Were they any different than she? She did not wish for special treatment simply because her commander had been closely acquainted with her brother. She could fight - she _did_ fight - she would rather be thought of as a soldier of the Resistance than a civilian.

The normally-calm man's expression turned annoyed. Not angry, but frustrated, a look Arycelle knew her face shared. The man's irritation faded almost as quickly as it had shown itself and in an instant replaced itself with an overbearing calmness that caused the Archer to take a step back in worry. He had a pleasant smile as he spoke. "'Twould be truly a shame if the Thunder Maiden was taken off the field by her commander for insubordination."

"Y-You wouldn't dare!" Her eyes widened in shock and disbelief. He said so with such confidence, such resolute assurance that she did not doubt he would go through with the threat. His reasons baffled her; she was just another soldier, what reason did he have to threaten her with demotion? The man made no sense.

In an instant, Leonar crossed the paces between them and pushed Arycelle back against the nearby wall. It was a light shove, more to knock her off balance, and he held her there, hand grasped at the cloak around her neck. His voice was low as his eyes met hers. "You've been on assignment constantly since Sydney was captured by the Galgastani, without even a single day of rest." Arycelle turned her face to the side; she knew what he spoke was true, but 'twas nothing to be ashamed of. 'Twas not shame, but his manner that made her turn away; she could not face the accusation in his words, as if he knew _exactly _why Arycelle had chosen to devote herself to her work. Certainly he could not know - "You're going to get yourself killed and, if not yourself, your troops will collapse from exhaustion." His breaths were shaky, as if Leonar was not used to such emotional outbursts. When Arycelle had first seen the man, when he was at the head of the army, impassioned, as he spoke of freedom, she would not have believed him capable of it, either. "Stay in Almorica - for Sydney's sake, if not your own."

The commander did not release his grip, as she would have expected. His breaths were warm against her cheek and his presence so close distracted her in a way she did not understand. He was right; Arycelle had been obsessed. One emotion had been on her mind since she heard the Galgastani had taken her brother to that camp in Bamamusa and 'twas, to her humiliation, not Sydney's freedom, but death. She wanted to kill every Galgastani she saw. She wanted to avoid the pain, so she immersed herself in war and was awash in blood. She ran away, as she could not face reality. Was that what Sydney wanted? Did he wish her to die, enraged, alone on the battlefield, because of some blind mistake she made in her search for vengeance? No - Sydney would have much preferred her remain in Krysaro, he had said as much. When he left, she had promised to take care of herself; the Archer could not even fulfill that simple, but important, promise. Leonar spoke truly, as much as she did not wish to accept it.

"Ugh. Very well." The Archer nodded. At her words, Leonar released her gently and rearranged the cape around her to its proper position. 'Twas a surprisingly intimate motion that would have seemed out of place were either Arycelle or Leonar more experienced in the subject. He gave her an uncomfortable smile as he walked over to the door and held it open. At least he did not plan to escort her; some Knight he was! Arycelle laughed at the thought, which earned her a strange look from the commander. She shook her head and offered as much of a smile as she could. The woman was surprised; she felt drained, but some part of her was relieved. Arycelle had not realized it, but she cried out for help. Finally, someone saw her suffering - yet it had been the last person she expected. She cursed her commander for his perception as she passed by him and offered him a nod of goodbye.

The Archer walked slowly through the streets, almost in a bubble. She smiled at all of the bored guards who passed by and even spared a word for them. For a woman known for her temper, Arycelle Dania proved that when she was happy, she was pleasant to be around and her 'Thunderous' reputation was quite over exaggerated. As the woman approached her house, she finally released a sigh she did not realize she had held in. Leonar would likely come early in the morning - knowing him, well before the sun was fully in the sky- in order to assist in the collection of her belongings.

As the Walister woman walked behind her house to enter through the back door and grasped her knife in case any thieves awaited her, she mused; 'twas not particularly bad to be acquainted with the commander; once she went afield again, she would have the first choice of Galgastani to kill.

* * *

><p>It was over in an instant. Leonar's weight fell on top of her and their mutual gasps came in rhythm.<p>

"I'm sorry." He continued to rest atop her as their breaths slowed. The heat between them was uncomfortable and she almost wished to push him off, but could not bring herself to put any distance between herself and Leonar. From her position below him, she pulled him as close as she could, until his face met hers. He smelled very. . .Leonar-like. Though he sweated heavily, it did not smell, as many men would, and kept himself clean and groomed. His wash lacked any scent, even the soap - very professional for battle perhaps, but Arycelle preferred a stronger wash for both hair and body; perhaps she'd buy him some, since he obviously would not obtain it for himself.

"What for?" Arycelle ran her hands down her lover's back in a gentle stroke as she nuzzled into his neck. Leonar returned the motion and embraced her tightly, the stubs of hair on his cheek rough against her skin.

"I. . .did not withdraw." Arycelle almost sighed at his foolishness. He always worried about the smallest things. Was she comfortable? Did he hurt her? Did she enjoy the way he touched her? Was that a gasp of pain or pleasure? The Walister woman was not a doll and he did not need to treat her as such. Though, she could admit that an unexpected child outside of marriage was certainly quite a bit different than any of his other fears about their lovemaking.

"You make such a fuss every time. Nothing will happen." She whispered into his ear. They'd made love many times in the past and this little 'accident' happened almost every time. Perhaps 'twas time for Leonar to stop pretending 'twas an accident and tell her that it had been intentional the entire time. She knew she did not necessarily speak the truth, for she certainly had no control over the conception of a child, but she spoke to ease his worries. The commander had enough stress on his mind that he needn't worry about as bastard child and its political consequences as well.

"We musn't be too careful. Just because we've been lucky so far does not mean we will remain so." He spoke her thoughts almost perfectly. The elder man pushed himself off of her and rolled over to her side, but still kept his hand grasped in hers. Arycelle released his hand and pushed herself up into a sitting position and pushed the remains of the sheet off her; she was far too hot for any covers. The Archer turned towards her Knight, who had turned away, head on the pillow.

"I don't think either of us are ready for a tiny Leonar yet." She spoke lightly and brought her hands, worn and calloused from battle, onto his back. She could not say she was skilled in the art of massage, but even with her inexperience she still could tell the tense muscles from the relaxed ones. She massaged her fingers into his upper shoulders and back in circles against the taut muscles, her grasp difficult against the sweat that still covered his body. He did not lean into her grasp or even thank her, as he usually did, instead he remained silent and rolled his shoulders in response to her touch, the only evidence he felt her at all.

He was certainly acting oddly. Arycelle had pretended not to notice it, when he had come to their now-shared home with a troubled expression on his features and the way he had forced her against the wall in a fit of passion more desperate than he had ever shown her before. Something had happened and he did not wish to worry her. The foolish man did not seem to realize that when he hid his burdens, it only distressed her more.

"Leonar. What troubles you?" She removed has hands and sat up fully behind him, on her knees, hands on her hips as she demanded an answer. Her tone was firm, but both of them knew 'twas how she showed she cared.

"Nothing gets by you, it seems." The Walister woman heard soft laughter from her lover's direction, but he did not turn over or answer her question. Instead he released a long, deep breath that spoke of the weight of his duty that he felt. He got like that sometimes; they had lived together for long enough that she saw his weakest moments and she recognized all of the symptoms perfectly. On some silent cue that Arycelle did not understand, Leonar rolled off the other side of the bed away from Arycelle. She watched his expression, but only saw it etched into the firm lines of a frown as he walked through the room, as if in search of a specific goal. When he reached his small dresser where he kept his common clothes, Leonar dug through them quickly.

"Arycelle, my love." Arycelle could not stop her breath; he had never called her such a title before. She felt a put of warmth in her stomach, and a girlish blush crossed her features, she did not doubt her entire body was red from pleasure. 'Twas only a word, but she did not know why it made her so happy, but emotions were rarely rational. As Leonar returned, he held something in his fists. His breaths were deep, as if he was nervous as he sat by her, still as naked as she was and took her hand. "When this war ends. . ." He paused and as the woman looked to him, she saw him swallow, as if not sure what to say. Was it any other man, she might have thought the nervousness adorable, but it felt so out of place on the strong, secure Leonar that is almost worried her. Almost. His took her hand, left, and to her shock, he slid a ring, his hands shaking and covered in the thick sweat from his anxiousness, the most beautiful she had ever seen, onto her finger. His words were more confident as he spoke, as if he had lost his insecurity. "I want you to be my bride."

"What brought this on all of a sudden?" Arycelle withdrew her hand almost instinctively. She knew she should be happy - and she certainly was - but confusion, even fear, set itself in. Certainly his odd actions would not have been from nervousness; he hid something else from her. It hit the woman hard, like a hammer to her gut. Leonar did not think that he was going to return from his next assignment. The warm pit in her stomach was replaced by one of dread.

"Do you decline?" Leonar looked away, as if he truly thought she was horrified by the idea. _Oh, Leonar_. He was a competent commander and a wonderful companion and, someday, he would make a fine husband, but he was so ignorant of social cues at times. She supposed 'twas because he was always 'Duty, Duty, Duty!' He looked almost like a broken child at the thought that Arycelle rejected him that she could not handle it. She smiled and moved herself close as she kissed his cheek.

"Of course not, I would be honored." She took his hands in hers and smiled at the relieved, even satisfied look on the Knight's face. 'Twas a shame for Leonar that Arycelle would not be deterred so easily. "But you will not avoid my question!"

She did not receive the chuckle she expected, instead his only response was a deflated sigh as the smile that had graced his features for a short moment evaporated away. His voice was quiet and Arycelle had to lean in to hear him.". . .I am going on a mission to Balmamusa." The Archer's eyes widened in shock. What purpose did the Resistance have in one of Galgastan's Walister camps? It would be considered an act of hostility and could provoke an attack on Almorica, if Balbatos had the numbers for it. "When I'm there, I'll be sure to tell Sydney of our engagement." Before she could reply, Leonar turned to her and pulled her back on the bed so that they lay side- by-side. He enveloped her in his hot embrace and pulled her head into his chest, as he toyed with her hair.

He still hadn't answered her question, but Arycelle was too content in the arms of her new fiancé to care.

* * *

><p>Belated apologies about Arycelle's characterization; she wrote herself more than I wrote her.<p> 


	29. Unintended: OeliasDenam

By request, OeliasDenam. I'm not quite sure where this came from. This piece was originally meant to be fluffy fun but turned into severe Denam introspection – and lacked the sweet romance it was intended to have. In short, I don't like it. But I hope you do!

Neutral Denam comes off a bit more immature than Chaos or Law Denams in Chapter 3 and I've tried to show that here to some extent. You might be better able to understand Oelias and her motivations in this story if you've seen the revealing dialogue between she and Nybeth in the battle in the Palace of the Dead 5F, 4N.

I've used island names in this story that may confuse some readers. Here's a short list to clarify some of them:  
>Valeria: The large central Island where much of the game takes place. Almorica, Rhime, Phidoch, Heim, Coritanae, and so on are on Valeria. Valeria is only one of the many islands that make up the Valerian Isles.<br>Banhamuba: This larger island houses the Hagia and an active volcano.  
>Galdochae: The island Golyat is on.<br>Deknigos: This isle houses Ndmasa Fortress.

_**Unintended**_

* * *

><p>The sailors were inept - if they could even be called sailors at all. Denam supposed he should not have expected a miracle when he had ordered his soldiers to sail a ship, even small as it was. Though he was funded by the Resistance, Denam's time on the run had taught him the importance of the management of Goth. When in Asyton, Denam had stubbornly refused to hire a ship's captain for a trip of no longer than a half-day across the channel from Valeria to Banhamuba and then, later, around to Deknigos in search of the elusive Necromancer. The journey should not have been a taxing affair, a two-day trip at most, if he counted their encounters. Unfortunately, very few in his Order, and even fewer within the Resistance troops Ronwey had given to him, were skilled in the arts of navigation or knew how to properly handle a ship. In the end, the results had been disastrous and had more than doubled travel time. 'Twas partially his fault; he was no competent sea captain, as his skill with sea vessels was limited to small boats that went to and from Galdochae to the main Island of Valeria. Perhaps he simply should have listened to his friends; 'twould have saved him time, money, and stress if he had not declined to spend a bit of Goth. He had never been the shrewdest of businessmen, and oftentimes such opportunity costs eluded him, but his misstep reminded him that perhaps there were times when he could not expect the world from his soldiers – or himself.<p>

The entire excursion was a disaster. True, he had brought forth the Great Father's justice to two Necromancers and, more importantly, Philaha's mercy to their innocent tools, but it had certainly not been a clean operation, nor had it given many of his new troops, gifts from the Duke, a positive outlook on his skill as a leader when they already doubted his capabilities. Worst of all, worse than any incompetence or foolish decisions, was the battle at Ndamsa Fortress. There had been a long moment, when he recognized his opponent, that he had stiffened, unable to move, act, or think. His breath had been sucked away from him as if by a powerful Dark paralysis spell as the world crashed down around him; Gildas had died to save him. He had lost his battle with Martym, a battle that Denam had been unable to fight for himself. It was because of the Xenobian that the Walister had been able to pursue and free Catiua, even if the end result was his re-alliance with the Resistance shortly after. What could he say to the man who had died for him? What _should_ he say? When the fallen Knight declared Denam the source of his hatred and pain it struck him to his core and rendered him inert. His powerlessness had affected so many; Balmamusa, Rhime, Vyce - still alive, but hunted, and Gildas. No doubt many more would suffer because of him.

Denam Pavel stood at the edge of the small ship, the vessel was a good step up from a boat but not large enough to be considered truly fine, and clutched the rail, his fingers white from the strength of their grasp against the soft, worn wood. He pressed his eyes closed; 'twas just the sea air, he told himself, his eyes were sore from all of the salt and brisk wind that blew into them. _Gildas. _What could he say to Canopus, Mirdyn, and Warren? How would he tell Lanselot, when - if - they found him? Denam grimaced and brought a hand down to his side, the only physical remnant of Xenobian Knight that remained. It had been the first blow Gildas aimed towards him. The Walister captain had not quite believed what he saw, that what was left of the man was serious and truly sought to kill him. The only reason Denam had survived the Knight's attack was Canopus, who had shot Gildas in time to unbalance him; the Winged had spoken the harsh words that set him into reality and allowed him to finish the battle: _That is no longer the Gildas we knew. _Even as he repeated the words in his head, he pressed his hand hard into the wound on his side, made by the fallen knight's greatsword. Gildas's weapon had not pierced any vital organs and Denam was skilled enough in Light to not trouble anyone with such a lesser wound when others needed it far more than he, so he had told none about the attack.

The pain helped. It was appropriate penance for what he had done - or what he had _not_ done. It also brought him back from his morbid self-pity into the world of reality; he opened his eyes in a gasp at the excess of pressure he put on his side and cursed in response. When he removed his hand from his side his undershirt clung to the skin of his hip; the blood had not seeped through to the outside, through his armor, and Denam quickly pressed his magic into the outer layer of the wound as subtly as he could manage without drawing the attention of every Wizard, Enchantress, and Cleric on the ship. It seemed he had pressed on it harder, and longer, than he had thought, to cause such damage in a short time. _You're such a fool! _Denam could hear Catiua's voice in his mind. He had left his sister in Almorica after their argument, but her words remained with him, and a subtle dread within him cried out whenever he heard her speak in his mind, another reminder of what the war tore from him. He had done his best to avoid thoughts of their argument, and the words she spoke then; he evaded the thought that their father might not truly have sired them, as she said. Her declaration was not something he had the capacity to deal with in the midst of emotional turbulence that came alongside war and death. The battle was no longer about Denam; his issues had to be put to the side until Valeria was safe. Once he saved his father from the Dark Knights he would question him, but until then, Catiua's words would have to remain a ghost in the back of his mind.

The captain pushed himself away from the edge of the boat in frustration. He could not just sit about and mope all day. The young man ignored the calls of the soldiers who acted as the ship's crewmen as he passed over the deck and down into the lower bowels of the vessel. He nodded and waved offhandedly to those who called his name, but did not really pay them much heed beyond the simple acknowledgement. Denam held open the door to the lower levels for a moment to clear the hall; the lower areas were not particularly pleasant, but always remained dark, smoky, warm, and humid, as they lacked any true ventilation. The ship was not built to comfortably house a myriad of passengers. After a moment he walked down into the quiet hallways, the gentle rocking of the ship his only companion. The passages through the lower areas were small and cramped for him, as he had thick clothes and light armor that bulked his form up, as he passed. For some of the larger men, it must have been miserable to try and walk around in the crowded halls.

Denam had, rather selfishly he admitted, assigned himself a room close to the upper level of the ship so that he would not have to travel far to reach clean, fresh air. The soldiers had offered him the captain's quarters, but he declined; they had been far too stuffy for him. He did not know, or care, who took them. As the captain made his way some three paces towards his door, he froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he knew he was watched. His breaths quickened immediately as adrenaline coursed through him and his hand found its way to the hilt of his blade. He was foolish, he told himself rationally, there was no one on the boat to threaten him, but he stiffly turned around, still cautious and ready to strike if necessary. The young part of his mind whispered tales of sirens who lured unsuspecting sailors to their deaths, but he pushed them away. He was not a boy any longer; sirens were simple legends and nothing more, no matter how the sailors of Golyat swore by them. To his pleasure, 'twas neither ghost nor siren that stood behind him, but a normal woman, one he recognized.

"Captain." Oelias smiled at him, a foreign expression on her normally cool features; his formal title, altered slightly by her Galgastani accent, one he rarely noticed in common conversation with her, sounded odd on her lips, as if she was unfamiliar with such military formality. She met his eyes nonchalantly and showed no sign that she saw Denam's shocked and fearful reaction to her presence, but the captain had no doubt the alien woman knew what she had done. The Sibyl had no doubt stalked him quietly on purpose, to catch him unawares for whatever she sought to speak to him about. Oelias took a step closer to him, well within his space but not near enough to be uncomfortable.

"Oelias." Denam forced his hand from his blade, the earlier pain in his side forgotten. He did his best to return the woman's smile, but his awkward response only seemed to amuse the woman. Her expression, which earlier welcomed him, now held a hint of mischief and she tilted her head to the side, cheek rested on her hand, as if in thought.

"Come, this is no place for us to speak." She walked by Denam and pushed open the door to what she knew was his room. Denam frowned as he walked past; something serious must be on her mind if she wanted to speak with him in private, the woman was rarely so quiet and he had never found her to keep her motivations hidden. Her silence made sense, he mused as he took the door, still open, from Oelias as they both entered; she had just faced her father in battle, if he had done the same he would not be nearly as strong as she. Denam did know what went on in the woman's head, if she was disgusted, in pain, or simply troubled by what may happen to her brother or father and wished to confront the captain about it. The Walister had a good deal of respect for the Galgastani woman; many in the Resistance did not openly welcome one from Galgastan so easily, but she stood steadfast against their assaults and never responded with hostility. She rarely smiled, her face normally an impassive mask, one strong and meant to protect her. She was similar to Denam in that regard; no doubt she held in her pain as much as he did as well.

Unlike the other rooms, Denam's was not filled with bunks like on the lower levels that housed sailors or soldiers, but instead it seemed as if it was intended to be used as a guest room, likely for a merchant or guest of the ship's captain. There was only a single large bed that Denam slept on and a chest for belongings - one that held nothing, the trip was not long enough to necessitate Denam bringing more than was in his travel pack - and a single small stool and table to sit at. The room was dark and as Oelias found her way over to the stool, Denam took the torch from outside his door and lit the one on the inside to provide some light to the shadowy chamber before he returned it to its place and closed the door behind them both.

The Galgastani woman sat on the stool, her legs crossed over and hands in her lap. Her hair fell in front of her as she watched the captain without a word; her eyes were unreadable in the darkness, for a single torch could not bring bright light to the room. Denam stared at her, his discomfort rising as the woman crossed one arm over her chest and held her elbow in a motion that allowed her other hand to rest on her face. The captain blinked and continued to stare at her, not sure what she wanted to say. Her breaths were calm, serene even, but her impassiveness set Denam on edge. He moved over to his bed and sat on the end as he removed his boots for comfort. The Walister could feel the Galgastani's eyes follow his every motion and did his best to hide the pain in his side from leaning over and exerting pressure on the wound he had yet to fully heal. He resisted the urge to cringe and gritted his teeth as best he could to hide his pain. No need to worry the already-troubled Sibyl over a minor scratch.

Time passed in the room silently and Denam's breaths were loud in his ears. The woman continued to intently gaze at him, but her eyes had started to narrow, a sign he took as subtle annoyance. Had he missed some Galgastani cultural etiquette that said he must treat a woman in some way? His mind went over his father's lessons about the church; there were no issues with the manner he had spoken and treated the Sibyl; in the end, her ways were entirely mysterious to him and he had no idea what Oelias expected him to say or do. Denam sighed quietly and focused his attention back down to his belt, which he unbuckled and pulled off his waist and over his shoulder. There was no point in the removal of his armor, he would only need to put it back on in a few hours once they disembarked; 'twas not entirely uncomfortable, as he did not have the large bulkier metals and instead went for a more subtle, supple support of thick, comfortable leather and cloth.

The silence was too much. Denam felt the pressure close around him; so much was expected of him and the Galgastani Sibyl demanded yet more. The woman had started to toy with the bottom of her braid and twisted the hair around her index finger in boredom as she bit her bottom lip. She had followed him into his room and invaded his private time, as if she expected something, yet Denam had no idea where to begin, nor did he have any hints on how to address her issues. He worried the woman was upset that Denam had been unable to kill Nybeth, or perhaps she had yet more to tell him about the Necromancer and his ways and did not know how to start. The captain felt his annoyance spread; his mood was short from his earlier distress on deck. All he wanted was some time to himself so he could come to terms with what had happened and how he could make up for it in the future; she would not even give him that freedom. Best deal with the woman as quickly as he could.

"What do you want me to say, Oelias? 'I'm sorry I couldn't kill your father?'" He spoke more bitterly than intended, and he had certainly not meant to come off as harsh, but the Walister's discomfort from his wound and ill temper made him snappy towards the Galgastani woman. He could have sworn he saw a brief flash of amusement on the woman's face before she covered her features with sadness, which, oddly enough, passed over her quickly, much like storm clouds. Instead her features held a relief, so subtle that Denam was only able to read them because of practiced skill in the art.

"No. . ." She seemed uncomfortable, more so than before. Her earlier aloofness had faded and her expression had softened as she mused; she looked a good deal younger when she was not so distant. Perhaps others viewed Denam in the same way. Almost instantly that playful look was back and her lips curved upward. "What I'm here for has nothing to do with my family."

Denam frowned at her tone. She spoke lightly and kindly, but from her such was unfamiliar, even disorienting. He had only ever seen her severe that such light-heartedness surprised him. He raised an eyebrow, not sure what to say. If Oelias was not here about her father or brother, her purpose baffled him. The captain remained quiet, but continued to stare at her in the way she had stared at him earlier, a silent prod for answers. The tenseness that had earlier flowed through him at the shared silence had been broken, but now was replaced with a confusion and impatience. Oelias no longer looked uncomfortable either, and she had look about her that Denam knew well from his sister: stubbornness. She stood from the stool and walked over to Denam with a boldness that alarmed him. The Walister man stood immediately from the end of the bed in response, an innate defensive maneuver. Oelias was well within his space by the time he was all the way up, a frown on her features at Denam's attempted evasion. She was far too close for comfort and the captain looked away, but the moment he did he gasped out in shock as a spike of pain ran through him. He clenched his hip, where his wound was, the source of his agony; Oelias had poked him very hard and, if he judged by the way the woman looked at her hand, she, too, had noticed how vulnerable he was. "Tch." was all Denam said in response and grasped at his side to protect it from any further assaults.

"Captain, why have you not gone to the healers?" She might as well have put her hands on her hips and glared down at him as if he was a strict mother for all her annoyed tone reminded him of one; not that he remembered his mother, but Oelias fit exactly in what he imagined her to be like. Denam was no longer a boy; he would not back away from such a look.

"There's no need. I'll be fine on my own." He may not have pushed her away with his hands, but his words were brusque and his tone might even have been described as dismissive. The Walister appreciated her concern, truly he did, but 'twas unnecessary. Denam had been trained in the art of Light magic by his father and was entirely capable of restoration when needed. He simply had not had the time to rid himself of the wound - and nor would he so long as the stubborn Sibyl was in his room making demands of him.

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow in a look very reminiscent of one Catiua gave him when she _knew_ he bluffed. She waved off his dismissive tone and moved closer, the space between them uncomfortably close and would appear intimate to any who entered the room. She put her finger to his chest, her nails surprisingly long and well groomed despite her profession, and spoke with utter confidence paired with a subtle mockery. "You can barely lift your blade. 'Tis clear as day for all of us who care to notice; your Clerics have been worried sick!" Her tone changed to annoyance and anger as, for emphasis, she poked at his chest.

"As I said: there is no need to worry over me. I can heal myself." Denam resisted the urge to huff in annoyance, a trait that perpetually annoyed him whenever done by an irritated Catiua. A bit uncomfortably, he raised his hand to Oelias's and removed it from his chest. He was not quite sure what to make of the situation; she had obviously come because she saw he had been hurt, yet he was surprised at her forcefulness on the subject. Perhaps she felt his wound was her fault, Denam mused, as foolish as the idea seemed.

"Then why don't you do so?" The captain had no reply for that. The wound may have been his penance, but he could not continue to attack himself for what happened - or so he knew logically. In his heart he felt he deserved it for Gildas's death. If only he had stopped Xapan, then Catiua wouldn't have been taken to Almorica and he wouldn't have had to let the Xenobian die. The White Knight's blood was on his hands as much as the Templar Martym's. Even so, the Galgastani woman had a point. Gildas had saved him, not so that he could mope about and get an infection that would kill him. It was Nybeth and Lodis Denam knew he should channel his anger towards, not himself, but life was not as easy as that and rationality did not always win such internal battles.

"Very well." He relented; he had to take care of himself. Too much counted on him to allow a moment of weakness in battle that would get him killed, be it by arrow or blade. If Oelias was stubborn enough to demand he be healed immediately, he would be happy to do it himself. To his surprise, Oelias did not move away at his acquiescence, instead she took a step closer, until she almost pressed against him and he could feel her breaths, before she moved her hands onto his shoulders and pushed him down on the bed sternly, as if she expected to be obeyed. Denam was so surprised at her boldness that he acceded almost without question and sat without though, before it occurred to him a half-second later what exactly had happened – and why it had been a terrible idea.

Suitably pleased with herself, Oelias stood above Denam expectantly. Her presence made him tense and he felt an uncomfortable pit within his chest and stomach out of a mixture of nervousness and discomfort. She looked at him with eyes that seemed to search for something. The woman's gaze was unreadable, no longer with either its earlier mischief or aloofness, as if she had some thoughts on her mind that she could not, or had no desire to, elaborate on. The Walister shook his head; 'twas no use trying to understand some women. In order to distract himself from the mysterious Galgastani, he looked down to his side and barely lifted his shirt, as to not expose himself, and placed his hands under his light armor and underclothes. He cringed; as expected, the underclothes were sticky and soaked with blood. From his position he could not tell if the wound was infected and if any of the liquid that stained his underclothes had been pus, but he had taken cares to make sure to clean it with alcohol the previous night and earlier in the morning so it should not be. He did not have any of the liquid on hand and could not clean it during this session, so he had to hope that the cut wasn't open enough that he might infect it with his relatively unwashed hands.

As his father had taught him, he started with the deepest part of the wound he could find with ease using his magic. The way he carefully prodded at his wound with spells was difficult and required a degree of control that almost surely exhausted one who lacked skill in the art. Denam did not have nearly as much control over the element as his father and sister, but he did consider himself better than average and could restore rapidly over short periods of time. As it had the day before, the touch of Light magic burned the deep wound; Gildas's blade had been tainted by the Necromancer's magic almost as much as Gildas himself was and that darkness had festered within. 'Twas not quite an infection, and the magic slowly faded away over the course of the days since they left Deknigos, but it made the recovery process slower and more difficult than it should have been. The normally-soft tingle was hard and painful, much like if he had hit his elbow on something hard just so. To touch his power directly to the foreign spell was incredibly painful, so he had to ease it in and around to clean the region, much like the removal of a poison without spreading it. Once the magic actually surrounded the taint, the purification was not nearly so -

"Ugh!" Denam looked up from his side, concentration shattered in an instant. Oelias made a sound of disgust and had a frown on her features, anger mixed with some other emotion. . .distress, perhaps. Certainly she did not thinking his casting so clumsy? Not even Catiua had any complaints when Denam opted to heal himself and she had incredibly high standards. "Remove your shirt." She put her hands on her hips almost comically as she looked down at him from her standing position. Her braid fell down in front of her, close to hitting Denam's head; she did not seem to care either way about the ridiculousness of her manner.

Denam was speechless. He worked his mouth to form words of bewilderment or consternation but no sound left his tongue. The most he could muster was a rather pathetic, half-hearted "Excuse me?" The captain was sure he misheard. No unfamiliar woman would make such a demand, certainly, especially not a woman of the church. Not even his sister would have simply demanded he remove his clothes on a whim, their father would have been appalled had she done so.

"Unacceptable, you're going to scar." As 'twas clear Denam was not going to do as she ordered, Oelias sat down on the bed next to him on his right, much to the captain's distress, and pulled his hands from underneath his shirt. The Walister man sat stiffly, not sure what he should say or do in such a situation. His eyes widened as she turned towards him and pulled his shirt upwards, since he obviously had no intention to do so. _That_ was too much; the Walister's compliance with foolishness only went so far. He grasped her arms tightly and pushed them away and lowered his shirt back down. Denam was a tolerant man, but Oelias's actions bordered on madness. The woman met Denam's stern eyes with her own, ones that no longer held their earlier mischief or discomfort, only irritation. The way Denam held her arms and their close proximity bordered uncomfortably on intimacy, but he dare not release her, for he had no idea what she would do when he did so. Her words were tinged with distaste but spoke in a tone that was just as stubborn as the Walister man's. Neither would give into the other so easily. "I've seen more of soldiers than their chests and abdomens; a little bare skin does not phase me. Let me do my job."

She attempted to tug away and, as she did so, Denam belatedly realized just how foolish he was. With a deep color in his cheeks he released her and turned his face away so that she could not see his humiliation. Oelias was a Sibyl, a healer of the church, and even if she was Denam's comrade she spent much of her time restoring health to the wounds of soldiers. She did not wish to hurt or humiliate him, nor did she mean to act in an inappropriate manner. The Sibyl was used to uncooperative patients and treated Denam no differently than she did any other. The Walister assumed that there was also a cultural barrier involved between the two and the Galgastani woman's actions would have been considered fairly normal for her; it did not help that Denam had been raised rather strictly by an Abuna to act in accordance with the teachings of the Great Father, which would have deemed Oelias and her forwardness unacceptable. Denam lowered his head in shame; how badly he had misjudged the woman and jumped to conclusions. He finally nodded and turned away as he pulled his outer shirt over his head and armor. He would not apologize, but his silent agreement was enough to show the woman he understood and regretted his actions. The captain's armor, underneath his outer shirt, took a bit more time and Oelias watched quietly, but Denam knew damn well she was likely satisfied with herself, as he removed the leather straps around his arms, stomach, and chest. His motions were clumsy from his almost childish embarrassment that remained, but Denam pretended not to notice; best not admit to the weakness, or else the woman would attach herself to it and cling like a leech to an open wound. He laid the armor out on the bed beside him and removed his gloves and then, finally, his undershirt, which, as expected, was colored red with blood all the way up his side. The way it had smeared made the wound look much larger than it was. There was a large light red stain on his skin around his entire side that would need a wash as soon as they reached dry land.

With his shirt off, Oelias had found her way close to him again, the space dwindled by the second and again he felt the heat radiate from her body and her skin against his. He turned around so that his side would not be bent and would be easier to access for the healer in subtle hope that it would give him more space. The woman leaned down and glanced over the outside of the wound and the skin around it before she placed her un-gloved hand on his flesh. She, too, had not washed her hands with alcohol so he understood her hesitation to look too closely. Her magic was much softer than his; where Denam's magic felt like harsh velvet, pleasant but still rough, hers was a cool, light silk that passed over him, much like the chill of a quickly flowing river. 'Twas not unpleasant, but very different from his own and Catiua's; it seemed Galgastani Sibyls had been taught to use their magic differently than his father. He had once been told that the Galgastani even had whole towns and cultural subgroups within them that devoted their lives to the study of healing and considered it one of the higher arts.

Denam held back a pained grunt as Oelias's magic found its way around the 'curse.' He did not withdraw, but only through his strongest self-control; she had not know the spell was there and had unintentionally caused him more pain than he had ever caused himself. A thick band of sweat formed all over his forehead and underarms as he endured the persistent agony stoically, his breath rapid and his short nails dug into his hands, which formed tight fists. "Dark. . .this is. . .where have I. . .?" Oelias spoke to herself more than Denam. Denam barely registered the words as he clenched his jaw and did his best to prevent shaking from the painful tingle that overwhelmed half of his body. "Oh!" It seemed almost an eternity before Oelias stopped and gasped when she realized how much pain Denam was in. She looked up to his eyes, a worried expression on her normally-haughty features and he saw true distress and regret and her lips parted in a moment of weakness before it was all gone in and instant. The worry was replaced with a soft comfort, as if she hid her fears, and put her hand, too warm against his already uncomfortably hot body, when she spoke. "Your wound is quite a bit worse than expected." Her tone was entirely professional, but the cool appellation that most healers exuded was ruined by the soft lines of worry the young woman was unable to entirely hide that crossed her features. "It will take some time for me to heal you without the proper tools."

"I keep it clean and heal it every night, 'tis simply my exertion that continues to open the wound." The Walister replied stubbornly. The pain faded and no longer enveloped his entire being, but his body was tired from its efforts to hold it back and the sweat still fell. He felt a wave of nausea and exhaustion and suddenly wanted to curl up and rest. "I will say it for the third time: you needn't worry over me."

"Yes, there's no infection, but the blade struck deep and the remnants of that spell may permanently damage your flesh if not removed soon." Oelias replied with just as much stubbornness as the captain. Her hands found their way to his shoulders and very lightly pushed against him in attempt to make him lay backwards. Denam was almost tempted to give in due to his weariness, but persisted in his resistance until Oelias put more weight into it. She was practically on top of him by the time she had enough force to push him down. In truth, Denam did not quite know what had gotten into him; he was rarely so stubborn and irrational. The pain must have made him feverish. "Roll over onto your stomach." Oelias continued. With finality, Denam told himself he would not be so foolish any longer, he released a long breath and carefully turned over, making sure not to hit him wound, his armor to the side of him, or Oelias.

Oelias moved slowly at first as to not shock the already-nervous captain. At the first touch of her hand to his side Denam jerked almost violently. Both were surprised by the reaction until Denam felt his face flush and buried it in the pillow that that Oelias wouldn't see the reason; 'twas too late, however, and he knew Oelias had found his greatest weakness. She removed her hand from the area around the wound and again poked at his unwounded side; Denam curled up in defense only, to his consternation, hear Oelias giggle at his reaction. This Galgastani woman was evil embodied; not even Catiua would have taken advantage of him with tickles when he was weakened so. She was more like her father than he had ever before realized.

"Stop." He grunted, voice strained. Oelias's giggle turned into a laugh as she moved her hands up from his side onto this back. Denam forced himself into calm, but each time the woman made a fast motion he twitched, ready to defend himself from her assault. Oelias still seemed amused as she leaned over him to look at the wound, her hands, one on his back and the other on his side, channeled magic into him as she explored the area, now with easier access to the damage. Her laughter subsided as both fell into a silence; Denam's nerves eventually relaxed and he found himself calmed under the confident touch of the experienced healer. Oelias was more careful this second time as her magic made its way around inside his wound; she could not restore it at once, of course, but her magic, paired with his own healing, would make him battle-ready by the time he reached Almorica - or so he hoped. Oelias's method was strange and he was not quite sure he approved of the way she dealt with the magic that had been left within him; rather than chipping away at it slowly, much like trying to break a rock apart, she seemed intent on dissolving it, like a clump of sand in the water. The Walister captain could admit that her method was certainly less painful than his and the tingle that was caused by per magic's strictly controlled was pleasant, not agonizing. He would compare it to having lightly sore muscles from exercise, a pleasant discomfort, with the sharper pain of a pulled muscle.

The woman's control over her magic was impressive. The Galgastani put Catiua to shame when it came to her skill in Light; she had more experience than her years let on. He was still nervous about his exposure, but he released a long breath of satisfaction as he leaned his head down on his arm and brought his face up from his pillow. He was still inwardly tense and; he used his as a covered echo over the woman's to prevent the unlikely case of betrayal. His actions were more instinctual rather than the actual belief that Oelias would harm him; he did not like others so close to his space, let alone close enough that their magic could manipulate his body. Over time, Denam slowly felt the dark magic disintegrate within him; whatever the curse was, Oelias had no issue with its removal and had been much more efficient about it than Denam. Truthfully, 'twas not entirely gone, more split apart into small pieces. He could feel the tingle in a larger, broad area around the wound rather than secured in one single area, but the spell would dissipate over the course of the next week or so. Many tiny pieces of the Dark Magic would not harm him; 'twas much like trying to remove a few rocks from the path instead of a boulder.

"That should do it." Oelias's voice was worn from her earlier concentration, but she seemed satisfied with herself. Denam touched his side with his magic; the external wound was still open, but the deepest damage had healed to some extent. He would need to be careful not to reopen it this time. He almost laughed at the thought; Denam knew well that would not keep his caution in mind once he became 'captain' again. Perhaps 'twas why the woman had been so persistent in the first place, she knew how he would not care for himself. After a moment of silence as Oelias watched Denam explore her work, she spoke again, expectant, with a subtle demand that told him she would watch and make sure he did as she told. "You'll be able to heal yourself more thoroughly now."

"Many th-" Denam murmured and belatedly released his magic, which he still held around hers in defense. _Was that really so difficult?_ He asked himself, but the answer that resounded in the back of his mind was a confident 'Yes.' The Sibyls had more important duties to attend to than healing him. He attempted to push himself up, but was stopped when he felt a very heavy weight on his shoulders that prevented him from rolling over or sitting up.

"I don't think so, Captain." Oelias laughed, a darker sound than what he heard from her before. If she was no healer, he might have even called it flirtatious or husky; he simply refused to believe she acted that way and 'twas his mind playing tricks on him with her closeness. Her magic remained in his body, his hormones simply responded inappropriately. "The way you care for yourself? I think not. Allow me another moment, if you would."

Denam was about to decline but was silenced almost instantly by the touch of Oelias's cool magic on him once again. Unlike before, she did not touch his wound or examine him, but instead she used it as an addition to her fingers that ran up and down his back. Denam shivered at the feathery touch, but her weight prevented his withdrawal from the unfamiliar situation. Each time a finger ran up his back he brought his shoulders up in an unconscious defensive maneuver, despite the lack of any displeasure from his body. No one had touched him in such a familiar, even kind and respectful way, in years - not even Catiua – and he doubted any other woman before he found a wife would do so. As Oelias's Light magic coursed throughout this body, Denam was not sure if he should be horrified or simply allow himself the small pleasure of her delicate touches. His morals, unsurprisingly vocalized by an internal voice that sounded dangerously close to Catiua's, told him the situation was entirely too inappropriate for a Walister captain and a Galgastani woman to be in, healer or no. As the woman's nails and magic made their way down his shoulders and forearms, the argument about what was 'proper' or not fell apart in almost an instant and Denam's mind gave in; his body covered in small bumps of pleasure and he could not resist a very open tremor when her fingers ran over both the front and back of his hands.

'Twas all the prompt the Sibyl needed and her hands went to his back. She no longer stroked him, but instead lathered at the muscles in his shoulders; he winced at the sharp pain spiked through his body, only barely nullified by the pleasant touch of her magic. As she released the tenseness from him, her magic healed the remnant pain away and left him feeling loose, uncomfortably so. Almost instinctively he re-tensed his shoulders and shrugged them up close to his neck, which only provoked the stubborn Sibyl more. Her massage persisted and demanded absolute obedience - obedience Denam's mind did not want to give, but his body screamed and begged 'yes' to. He gasped out loud as she rubbed a particular muscle on the upper right side of his back, one he used often when he held his blade. He grunted as she put her full weight onto him, she might well have lain atop him from how close they were, and grasped at the stubborn muscles of the high-stress Walister captain. She did not relent in her pursuit, but Denam could not say he did the same and found he enjoyed her pleasant touch more and more. As time passed, his body became relaxed, his breaths slower, his shoulders less likely to tense under the touch of her magic and the forceful circular motion against the muscles of his back. He closed his eyes and took in the conflicting pleasure and pain as he desperately tried to avoid the thoughts of Oelias's soft curves that pressed into him.

"Denam." The captain did not know how long he had remained in his small bubble of comfort and acceptance before Oelias lifted her hands from him. Her weight remained, and her hair had fallen into a pool in the center of his back that tickled him whenever she moved her head. The aftereffect of her magic was immediately noticeable and he longed for it once again, the withdrawal pained him in a way similar to what happened when one stopped oneself in the midst of pleasure. Her voice was quiet, but given how close she was to him, he could hear her every word. Her tone was severe and stern and he felt as if he was scolded. He barely even registered that she spoke his first name instead of his title. "I know you want to help the Walister but. . .don't lose yourself in the process. Look what happened to my father."

"Pardon?" Denam blinked at her rapid change in subject as he wrapped his mind around her words. Her intention was certainly unclear and Denam would have felt offended at how she compared him with Nybeth. He was certainly no mass-murderer who used human lives in 'research.' Had he not been so relaxed from Oelias's massage he would have been angry. "I think you misjudge me." Denam kept his tone composed to hold back the irritation that built within him.

"Hush. Be silent and listen. What have you given up for this war?" Oelias fell silent as she gave the flabbergasted captain time to muse on her words. It did not take him long to come to the conclusion he always did. It tore him apart, ever since he had left for Asyton from Almorica. Father - in the hands of Lodis, he could not save him due to the Duke's orders and alliance with the Dark Knights. Catiua – she rejected him for his desire to save their people. Vyce - who loathed him for reasons he still did not understand, so much so that the man had given up his allegiances. More than all of them, Denam had given up himself, his morals. He had returned to the Resistance when he did not agree with their ways. Daily he faced hostility, no matter if the Duke named him 'Hero' or no. Every night he lay in bed and questioned his actions; what should he do, who could he save, what could he change for the least sacrifices? He had no answer. Perhaps he did understand Oelias's words; Denam had sacrificed those close to him for his war, as Nybeth had sacrificed his dear ones for his research.

The Sibyl continued. Her voice held none of its earlier haughtiness, but it also lacked the empathy he would have expected from her words. She was stern and confident, as if she wanted to give Denam her strength. Of course, her position above him also helped secure her point. "I haven't known you long, but I can tell. Something eats away at you. This might not be much coming from me, but. . .perhaps for a time it would be best to look inwards, at what you want, at those most meaningful and closest to you, rather than to center your life around the war."

". . ." Oelias pushed herself from Denam's back and off the bed after a moment of contemplation between the two. He grunted at the directed force of her weight in a mixture of desire and relief, desire for her touch to continue, relief that the sensual acts she had committed were over. He could not think of how to reply to the Sibyl; she had judged him well, too well. If a woman who had been with Denam for such a short time could read him so easily, he must be an open book to his other companions. 'Twas not only Gildas's death that troubled the captain, but everything else that had been required of him as well; what he had done - or what he had not acted upon - welled up within, a bubble ready to burst. Much like Catiua's anger at him had finally come to a peak, Denam wondered when his distress would rise until he could no longer control it. He could not find the words to counter Oelias's morbid premonition, nor did he know or understand how he could overcome it. His answer, a simple internal rationalization that he always used to justify his actions, was the he must do what he could, for he was capable of no more than that.

The Galgastani woman was as unreadable as he was. Her back was to his bare-chested form and her head tilted down, as if she was troubled. Her braid fell over her shoulder again and hung by her face. "Do not be afraid to come to us." The Walister did not know if she meant the healer, for his wound if he was ever ill again, or if she meant his friend, for they would support him in his troubles. Perhaps both - or neither; the woman was a mystery, alien, cryptic, one of the few people could not define. With no more words necessary between them, she left quietly, with little more than a breath as she exited his private quarters. Her magic seeped out of him slowly, the last tendrils of it dripped and merged with his own as he mused.

Denam was back where he started. When he showed his pain, he troubled others. When he hid it, he troubled them more. He did not know how to minimize the worry that remained constantly within, or if 'twas even possible. But there was nothing he could do; he had no idea if he could make his actions up, to both himself and others, nor could he change them. How much more had to be sacrificed for his better future? Oelias's plan backfired; she had healed his new wounds while she attempted to instill the captain with confidence and relax him from the tension that had pent up within, but as she did so she had only torn open old scars. Physical relief was nothing if his mind remained troubled; perhaps the Sibyl had yet to realize that.


	30. Second: DenamCatiua

And now for something completely different. I'm sorry, Olivya; someday I'll make it up to you. This is just what happens when I write on a whim based off of a random comment a friend says. It takes place post-game, Neutral.

_**Second**_

* * *

><p>It's as if I'm a spirit, invisible.<p>

Catiua is on her knees, dark trousers stained with the damp dirt of the ground, her back to me. I know tears fall freely from her eyes, mixed in with the warm rain; she never wishes to show such weakness, so I pretend 'tis not there. I give her space as she kneels before Vyce's grave, a simple thing, the best I had been able to make in only a few hours, but I can still hear rapid breaths and the way she holds back sobs. She leans her forehead onto the sturdy rock formation I made to mark my friend's position on the steep, lonely, cliff and whispers words that I cannot hear, let alone understand. We're not far from Rhime; close enough to see the city in the distance, far enough away that even brigands would not care to follow. There is nothing out here besides ragged cliffs and forest.

"I-It's all my fault." I finally hear her speak against the stones with loathing. She practically caresses the grave marker with her touch, as if she desires to hug it in place of the man she loves.

"Hush, Catiua. Do not condemn yourself for what you cannot change; the blame lies on me." I can never speak my true thoughts to her - Vyce brought it upon himself - especially after she reacted so painfully to what Leonar told me: Vyce's last words were her name, a desperate cry for the woman he cared for more than himself.

Only recently have I become so embittered towards the man I once called friend. During the war, I sought to save him, pointless though my goal may have been, but as I've matured I see that, in his wake, he only brought harm. 'Tis not even about our political differences, or even his stubborn refusal to discuss matters with Catiua and I; my emotions have mutated beyond that, into a direction that my Father would roll in his grave if he learned of. What I loathe about Vyce is how he stole Catiua - how he took her heart and squeezed it until it burst; when I see him in my mind, I see that blood over his clothes, as if he wanted her to match the way his own innards had spilled across him after he killed Ronwey. With his passing, Catiua will never know true happiness again. True, the Queen will marry in the future, if only for an heir, but her smiles would be feigned, they already are, her loving words little more than recited theatre towards whatever noble she chose. Had the foolish Walister man only looked beyond his nose for a single moment, he would have witnessed the pain he caused!

My teeth must have been grinding, my breaths rapid, and my fists clenching at my sides, as Catiua's attention finally turns towards me. I know my fury shows on my face, as easy to read as her sadness, but she misjudges my emotions, likely thinking them regret or anger at myself, and walks towards me. She runs a hand down my face, each of her wispy touches sends a tingle that courses through my entire body, before she encircles me with her arms. She clutches hard into me, her face against my chest. She holds on as if I am the last stable rock in her life, her island in the middle of a hurricane; perhaps I am. I stroke her hair as she cries and unintentionally presses her curves against me; she does not realize how much she's grown. I know I should not enjoy this, I want to call myself a horrible man, but the back of my mind fantasizes about the way her hips could roll against mine and my lips against flawless skin as they kiss her tears away - a dream I dare not act out. Instead I simply allow my fingers to linger on her skin as I push the long sleeves of her shirt up so I can better hold her hands. I am not brash enough to risk further affection; I know where her heart lies, to pursue my desires will only distance us.

Will she cry for me, if I die?

We stay there in the rain for what seems to be hours, until long after the weather passes and the cliff is covered in a thick fog. I do not have the heart to pull her away; this might be her last chance to stay with Vyce. She will be crowned Queen soon, her duties more important than personal feelings; side trips to a mundane cliff outside of Rhime will be impossible. Even if I am not happy with watching her slip from my grasp, I know her emotions matter more than mine. She is at peace here, as if she comes to terms with a part of herself; I cannot steal such development from her.

We do leave, eventually, and our return to Heim is much cooler, more distant, than our journey away. It feels as if reality sets in for both of us; our relationship ends when we enter the city. When Catiua returns she will no longer be herself, but Versalia. I am no commander – I do not even hold official position in the army beyond the respect given from former soldiers who fought on both sides in the war. She has no need of me in her duty of strengthening the new Valeria. Our positions are reversed from only a year past. Before she learned she was Versalia, Catiua followed me about, devoted and kind, without question, as she trusted my judgment. Now I must do the same for her, with no one giving a second glance to the man who stands behind, pointless and forgotten as a guard who stands watch at the castle gates. I'd have it no other way, the future belongs to her.

Our mutual trust in each other is not misplaced. Catiua looks out for me, as I do for her. 'Twould almost be sweet, were she not so oblivious to my feelings. She once claimed I did not understand her; again our situations reverse. I drop my hints often enough that she _must _know what I truly want, but she simply ignores it - or perhaps closes her eyes to the truth. She knows I leave soon, that I cannot stay; even if I wished to, and I do not, I've no place in court. The nobility loathes me so much that they will soon grow bold enough to even attempt assassination. Catiua knows I suffer alone and, because of that, she wishes for me to find happiness; 'tis very kind and I appreciate her thoughts, but she approaches my emotions in the wrong manner. All I seek is simple acknowledgement, even if only denial, so that my heart may be clear of its hidden lust; instead, she speaks to Olivya and Mreuva in secret often of late, even to Sherri and Cerya. I pretend not to notice, as always, but I know what she plans.

Olivya's too shy to speak of her desires; perhaps she simply knows better. We are alike in that regard, whichever it may be. Neither of us wishes to risk heartbreak. Olivya is a good woman, one of the best I know, and any other man would be honored to hold such devotion. She is loyal, stubbornly so, and will not turn her back on me; I wish I knew why. I've done nothing to earn such respect, but 'tis not something I am fool enough to turn away simply because I do not reciprocate her feelings. The Phoraena woman asks nothing in return for her acts and does them unconditionally. In return for her loyalty, and as thanks for Mreuva's, I make sure the Sibyl is well cared for; 'tis the least I can do to repay her kindness. If she is cool at night, I cover her with my blanket, if she worries, I reassure her. I will let no harm come to her.

Many mistake my actions as romantic; Catiua seems to believe I am smitten with her. In a different world, place, or time, I might well be. But I know the truth: I am a cruel man. When the Sibyl joined me at Brigantys, I was weak, broken, my life upside-down. The woman took Catiua's place as my support, as the one who grasps my hand when I fall. I used her then and I continue to do so now. She fills the continually growing gap within my heart; if I close my eyes, I can even pretend she is Catiua.

'Tis not the same. The accent differs, the manner of speech softer, her hair darker, height taller. Olivya never tells me when I go wrong, when I should change my course; she simply follows and accepts my judgment, as if I am everything in her life. I am no longer a child; I do not wish for such passive companionship. I seek an intellectual equal, not one who gives into me the moment I as much as frown. The Phoraena woman always wears a smile, even when I do not want one - _especially_ when I do not need one.

She is all I have, the last remains of a disbanded army, one of the few in Heim who shows me a modicum of respect. Yet she is not who I want; she will never be. Just as I will always be second to Catiua, Olivya will always be second to me.


	31. Home: RavnessDenam

I really attempted fluff this time, I swear. I tried to make Ravness, ah, not boring, but to be quite honest, it was challenging.

_**Home**_

* * *

><p>"There you are. Just when I thought I'd searched everywhere." Ravness smiled as she walked up the stairs onto the most upper ramparts of Heim, a place few other than the guard visited, and none so late in the day. The air was chill and thin and there was a light wind that blew stray strands of her hair across her features as her body became fully exposed to the outdoors. She kept her tone light and her steps loud enough that her target knew exactly where she was at all times. Denam Pavel did not even bother to turn towards her, but she saw his body language relax at her approach, even from the distance, as his hands fell for the stone barrier in front of him.<p>

"A pleasure to see you, too, Dame." His tone was pleasant, if more than a bit sarcastic in its overt formality. She should have expected such a reaction; Denam was quite traditional at times, yet others he tossed the trappings away all together. The Walister woman still had not quite determined the 'when' and 'why' he chose for his actions; even after so long with him, simple understanding often still eluded her and his evasive manner whenever confronted about it brought forth only irritation. Ravness was a tolerant woman, to some extent, and lived with his seemingly inane changes in habits before she finally gave in and asked the only person who would have known how to deal with them: Catiua. The Bakram woman had given her a strangely flat stare before she started to giggle similarly to what she used whenever she demanded to know of the progression of Ravness and Denam's not-so-secret relationship. According to the woman, the only purpose of his remarks was to tease her and keep her on edge because, and Ravness vividly remembered the other woman's almost sadistic giggle, Denam enjoyed the way her face turned red. Apparently, he wanted her to guess what he was to do next; it certainly worked, as it kept their communication fresh and there was almost never a dull moment. When there was a calmer air between them, 'twas always purposeful and warm. Ravness had been shocked to learn that her former-comrade had such a mischievous streak to him, and she was certain he used it now. His formality and use of title was only for play; they were long past such trivialities.

Perhaps he had not always been so playful– actually, she was quite certain of it. He had become more open of late in some ways, and in others equally withdrawn. Like Ravness, he was confused; he did not know what to fight for now that his opponent was gone, his struggle resolved. He had to learn to live life as a normal man again, and to do so he had changed from the commander he was for more than a year– the result was for the better, if anyone asked her. His lessened severity and his ability to constantly make her smile was one reason why she dreaded the day, which quickly approached, that she knew he would leave Valeria. Denam was not the only one who had changed in the times of peace, one who reveled in the small happiness and actions that would have previously been seen as wasteful. Ravness felt much like a child, with her mutual girlish antics with the Princess. When she had grown in Almorica, she had looked down on the young women who gossiped on the street with their friends; now that she was older and had started to act out actions in a similar fashion with her new friend, she looked to them with a certain endearing fondness, as if she finally lived the childhood she had never quite had. The soon-to-be Queen seemed to have felt the same way, and they spent their rare free time together in discussion about the ever-evolving relationships between nobles, their friends, and the court.

"It will be supper soon. . ." Ravness murmured as she finally reached the man she had attempted to find during the last hour, but quickly trailed off. Her friend paid little heed to her, his eyes stuck on the far horizon - no, over the city of Heim itself. Ravness followed the former-commander's gaze over the buildings, almost golden-colored in the glow of the sunset, a sheen covered them that made the city look like one from legend. She could not see the independent roads from their distance and the outline of the smaller buildings was forgone in her sight in favor of a larger collection. She felt almost as if she saw only an abstraction of the city as she looked down at it from afar; if she walked its streets she knew she would see the differences and variations in the styles of housing, the people, the neighborhoods, and even the air itself. As her eyes roamed the well-fortified walls of Dorgalua's fortress, she instead saw the collective city, rather than as individual parts; it was much like the generalization of "Walister," "Galgastani," and "Bakram." How oddly the mind worked at times; it saw only what it needed or desired and ignored the rest.

"What do you see?" the woman's reverie was shattered by the soft words whispered from the man beside her. They were little louder than a whisper, and almost floated on the wind between them; 'twas as if he spoke with a quiet hesitation that she could not discern the meaning of.

Ravness blinked, confused at the vague question. She had no idea what he expected from her, nor did his features reveal any of his thoughts. To make matters worse, he looked at her purposely, as if her reply was very important to him. Ravness shook her head and sighed. Again she let her gaze roam over the city in attempt to answer his question, but nothing had changed in the half-minute she looked away, nor did anything immediately come to mind. She finally answered hesitantly, as she knew full well her words were quite pathetic. "Heim. . .?" It was more a question than a statement; she fully expected Denam to go on and on about how he saw what she missed. In truth, she looked forward to his rants; it gave her some insight to how his mind worked. Then again, Denam had never been one who stopped and looked at scenery as art or simply for beauty, perhaps he sought her opinion on something he may have missed.

To her surprise, Denam laughed. It was a rare sound, pleasant, and it warmed her to her core even against the chill wind atop the castle. She wished he would do so more often. She felt the color rise to her face and kept her eyes on the city so that Denam would not notice it; hopefully he'd think 'twas the glow of the sunlight. "Precisely." The woman raised an eyebrow in shock; she had not expected such a simple answer to his vague question. She almost wondered if Denam had finally become sick of all of the philosophical musing he had done lately, but quickly doubted it. He was changing, but not _that_ quickly. Her companion chuckled again, more quietly, distantly, before he spoke his reasoning. "To thousands of people, Heim is viewed with warmth, affection, and seen as home." Ravness glanced over at the man, whose attention was drawn into the city once again. He ignored the wind entirely, even though it blew his bangs across his line of sight, and did not even move to brush them away. The Walister woman did not have the same option and when the next particularly fierce gust tore through the rooftops she had to hold her hair back with her hand. Yet still, Denam did not move. "I can't bring myself to think the way they do." He spoke to himself, as if he formed the words with his lips it would make thoughts clearer in his mind.

"Why should you?" the woman turned to face him. The Walister Valkyrie was horrified at the very thought that Denam should change himself for others. If he did not feel familiarity for fondness, she did not know why he should push for it – 'twould only be unnatural. Acceptance came with time; such force would only lead him to despise the city. She decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt before she launched into a lecture about how much of a fool he was and questioned him instead. "Because Catiua lives here now? Vyce? I'm sure they're just as uncomfortable as you are - Vyce perhaps even moreso."

Denam's eyes narrowed at some unknown emotion as he thought on her words. Ravness seemed to have missed his point, as she could sense a subtle annoyance radiate from his body language. In recent scales, the Walister had quickly learned what Catiua meant when she said 'Denam is very expressive, you simply need to know where to look.' 'Twas the Princess who had helped Ravness speak her mind to the commander and taught her to understand him; for her assistance, she owed the woman a debt that she could never repay. Catiua spoke the truth; often Denam did not know how to verbalize his thoughts and emotions, but they were usually easy to read from his demeanor or the subtle expressions on face. She wondered how she could have missed them before, when she had been a simple soldier under his command, as they were clear as day to her.

When she realized she had spent the last minute staring, the woman looked away as to not seem like even more of a fool, but she continued to sneak peeks at the former-commander. Despite how troubled he seemed, his expression had turned peaceful, happy, even satisfied. A bit of inner turmoil was natural, after all, and given what he had been through - what they had all been through - he learned not to take such times of peace for granted. Ravness smiled and unintentionally moved a step closer to him. After a time, he finally spoke - an odd change in subject, almost completely different from the one previous. He pointed out to the city. "That far wall there - that's the city's weakest point." Ravness's mind briefly flashed in memory at their pre-battle strategy meeting in Phidoch, before they took the city. Despite the fact that Catiua was their leader, officially, Denam had done all of the talking and planning. The army deferred to him. He used the same tone when he pointed as he had then, flat, recited. He continued. "The castle is well fortified, but its defenders mostly unskilled. It's an honor to defend Heim, so the nobility are set upon it; unfortunately, they've little practical knowledge or experience in warfare other than what is taught to them at the Academy." As if a dam had burst, he spoke efficiently and continued to assess the city below them. "That area" he pointed to one far in the distance, against one of the walls "is residential. Starting a fire there spreads the most panic. But -" He turned to Ravness for a brief moment and flashed her an almost playful smile before he turned back and pointed a separate area, farther in. "- for the most effect, you must attack the noble households. That will get the army moving faster than anything else." The smile turned downwards, his tone bitter. Ravness felt a well of disgust at his words, at how easily the common Bakram - who lived lives equivalent to Walister and Galgastani nobility - were dismissed. She knew 'twas not Denam's fault in that he spoke only the truth in his dry analysis, but she still could not bring herself to accept or like it.

Denam released a long sigh when he noted her disapproval, his voice quieted. "This is what I see." Ravness opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed, despite her best efforts. She had no idea what she could have said, for words just seemed so shallow and pointless, inadequate for her purposes. Nothing would change the events that had already occurred; even if he no longer held the title, he was still commander in his heart. Somehow, though, she doubted that was what troubled him. She had not quite gotten into the depths of his soul just yet. Denam had never been hesitant to do what he deemed was necessary - she above all knew that, as her mind flashed back to the pouring rain of Balmamusa, the thunder, the cries, and to those very words he had spoken to her - so there had to be something else that ate away at him that was not about his actions in war.

The Valkyrie could do little for him, no matter what his issue was, for she always believed one should solve their own problems, but she could offer him support. Ravness was not nearly as bold as Catiua, she had not known Denam for nearly as long, but she placed a hand onto his shoulder and smiled up at him to give what little confidence she had to him. Denam was not talkative by nature, but still she could tell by his expression, a wispy smile, that he silently thanked her. 'Twas simply his way; he supported others through subtle actions, words of encouragement or thoughtful insights, and he enjoyed the same back at him. Ravness was never that type of woman, she often expressed her thoughts and doubts aloud, but this was not about her, so she simply allowed her presence to comfort her companion until he was ready to continue their strange discussion.

"When you look over Almorica, what do you feel?" How odd he was! He changed the subject back to its original topic; likely the dilemma kept reforming over and over in Denam's head and he felt as if he went in circles. Ravness understood his conflict, anyone who had debated with themselves did, and could certainly empathize with him. She was not annoyed by his persistence, far from it, and instead closed her eyes as she remembered her childhood. The wind seemed to have temporarily died down to only a pleasant breeze that complimented the warm memories that drifted through he: laughter, her friends, the taste of the cooking, the smell of the city, her lessons. . .There was good and bad, but there was no question as to what she would call it. Ravness did not hesitate in her answer, voice tinged with all of the warmth of the years she spent there.

"Home."

Denam nodded, satisfied. "Coritanae?" He questioned her next and it took her a moment to understand what he meant from the word. He wondered if she had any affection for the Galgastani city she would soon be castellan of. Unlike when she heard the name Almorica, no emotions directly flooded through her, nor did any real thoughts of happiness or sadness. 'Twas simply. . .there. Certainly, she had lived in the city for a time and had a variety of experiences, but none of them truly defined "Ravness." She saw its Galgastani inhabitants, the beautiful walls, the culture, but all of it felt as if from a distant lens, much like how she saw Heim in abstraction. Suddenly, she understood Denam's dilemma. Her eyes widened; like her companion, she may have people she knew and cared for in the city, but none of that made it any more appealing. Her answer mimicked her thoughts earlier, when asked about Heim.

"A city."

The man sighed, but again nodded, as if 'twas exactly the answer he expected, but was not the one he wanted to hear. Ravness felt her heart go out to the man in his time of internal conflict and lightly tugged at his arm to distract him. "What is it?" He didn't reply, though he did offer her a half-hearted smile. Ravness wanted to tear her hair out in frustration; he always did this! Just when she thought she made progress into his mind and heart, he closed her off. She knew he did not wish to trouble her, but she also knew that his stubborn refusal to ask for help was a constant annoyance to both she and Catiua. The man did not seem to realize that his troubles were as plain as day; he did not hide them nearly as well as he thought. Again she tugged at the clothes on his arm, frown on her features. "Denam, tell me." At least she understood why Catiua always sounded so firm and annoyed with him; she heard herself as she took on the same tone the Princess used, almost unintentionally, because 'twas the only one that got through to the man.

He released a long, exasperated breath that she knew signified she'd won. Denam would feel better if he shared his problems; Ravness might not have the ability to make them disappear, but she wanted to share their burden. Just as he shouldered her weakness and helped her stand under pressure, so, too, would she do the same for him. "The idea of 'home' is baffling." He finally turned entirely towards her and pulled out of her grasp. His features held severity to them that reminded her very much of Leonar. "Golyat is my home." He declared with absolute confidence; there was no question that he loved the town. Ravness had been there once or twice, but had been unimpressed. To her 'twas a simple port with remarkably crass citizens; but she understood what Denam implied. He saw a different city than she because he considered it 'home.' "But. . ." He hesitated, an odd change from his utter certainty little more than a moment before. He looked in her direction, but past her, as if she was invisible as he looked into the sky. He breathed in deeply, to smell the air as he finished his subtle rant. "There are places I remember. Playing in the streams and fields, smells, tastes. They fill me with warmth."

"In Golyat?" She questioned. His descriptions were exactly what felt about Almorica; belatedly, Ravness mused that perhaps their definitions of 'home' were not so similar. Given his personality, Ravness almost assumed the only place he could consider such was where he was secure and felt safe, not necessarily one where he had fond memories. If that were the case, she wanted to be at home in his arms. Ravness shook her head before she could continue the thought- 'twas not the time for such fantastical notions.

"No, Heim." Ravness withdrew slightly in surprise. His answer was neither clipped nor hesitant like she would have expected from such an admission. But just a moment later, when he saw the look of shock that she had no doubt covered her features, she saw color rise in his cheeks and he turned away. Belatedly, the former-commander realized he had revealed a secret he had kept within him for some time. She could tell he cursed himself internally. Ravness's interest was only piqued yet more.

"This is where you're from?" She tried to gently lure the information from him and not make irrational assumptions, but the thoughts continued to form within even against her wishes.

"So I'm told." There was definite bitterness in his voice then. He hid it well, so well that she knew even Catiua would have had trouble in defining it, but Ravness could tell 'twas there. She had felt it herself. For so long the woman had denied a large part of who she was, felt such self-loathing and disgust at what she had been born, that she knew exactly what he went through. More importantly, and surprisingly, her mind worked quickly to understand the _how_ and _why_ of matters in regards to Denam being from Heim. She remembered vaguely, when Denam was named 'hero' by Ronwey, the Duke had stated that he knew Denam's father, Abuna. . .what was his name? Of course, Ronwey would not have remembered a simple Walister Abuna, no matter how skilled - but what did that mean? While Ravness had once been told that Denam and Catiua were not siblings by blood, she had also been told Denam was Walister. If Denam was from Heim, he was most certainly not Walister - and if he still called Catiua sister then that could only mean he hid the truth and that -

"Your sister! You are-?" She gasped aloud unintentionally in her surprise. Denam looked at her blankly for a moment before he started to laugh again, with true amusement, as if 'twas the most ridiculous thought he'd ever heard. The earlier bitterness seemed to have dissipated at her reaction - as if he expected her to have been disgusted from his revelation. Ravness almost felt as if she should rebuke him for his unspoken assumption; blood did not make the person. After all, she had been the one who taught Denam that.

"Don't make such assumptions. We aren't related by blood." His laughter faded, but the amusement remained and to Ravness it looked almost like he glowed. He broke into another rare smile, one he only used with her that never failed to make her heart pound. "But it doesn't matter; she's still my sister." The man stepped close to her and encircled his arm around her waist. He very rarely touched her so openly, that he was willing to do so was his way of showing his thanks and affection for the lessons she had taught him – particularly about how to accept oneself. Ravness smiled in return, and drew herself into him, as he lowered his forehead to rest it atop hers in quiet intimacy. She was glad her experience had helped at least one person. As Denam continued his explanation, his breath warm against her face, she could hear relief in his voice, as if he had waited a long time to vocalize his turmoil. "My family is from Heim." He elaborated. That answered the last of Ravness's silent questions, he was not Walister at all, it seemed. Not that it mattered, Ravness knew Denam loved the Walister just as much as she did. "I remember it, a bit. Fond memories, all of them. Yet still I cannot see it as more than the city it is."

There it was, the truth of his dilemma finally rose to the surface. He believed there was a difference about what he currently felt and what he _should have _felt. Her breaths stopped temporarily and her heart went to him; he had to have held those words and emotions in for a long time. It was not that he had come to terms and acceptance more easily than she - Ravness had been lost, even incapacitated, for the time when she felt betrayed by her people, when she'd lost her home- simply that he had not had the time to face it. Unlike her, Denam had been so busy with war that he had been unable to come to terms with who he was, and instead he pushed it aside. Bakram blood may not matter to him, it may not matter to Catiua – who also shared it, and it certainly did not matter to Ravness, but the truth was: it mattered to everyone else. What he '_should have' _felt for Heimbecame a _'must have' _when societal pressures weighed down upon him. "It is what it is; you cannot force change upon yourself." She spoke against his face, her lips just barely brushed the skin of his face as they moved, in the comfortable embrace. He did not seem to have any desire to let her go and she would have it no other way.

From their closeness she could feel him tense up as he removed his face from their nearness, presence sorely missed almost immediately. She said the wrong thing. After a moment, he started to stroke her back, unintentionally, as if he did it to calm himself. "Everything I know is here - in Heim." He murmured. "Vyce, Catiua, Olivya. . .You. None of what matters most to me is in the place I know as home. Were I to go to Golyat, no one would recognize me. Is Golyat truly home if nothing is left?" He sounded lonely and confused as he ranted and questioned himself. Ravness desperately wished she could lend him her resolve, but only Denam could solve his problems. His trouble went beyond her simpler identity crisis; his whole life had been turned on its head.

There was only one thing she could say. Ravness spoke the first words that came to mind, the only ones that made any sense to her. "Home can change." She looked up to him with a smile. "Living in Heim doesn't mean you have to give up the memories you had in Golyat; you simply make news ones. As you said, the most important things to you are elsewhere; they're what you make memories with, not the city. Nomads, wanderers, they have no home except for their families." Denam's eyebrows were drawn together in a frown as he contemplated her words. Ravness was not a particularly large woman, and with him looking down on her with such a dark expression it really reminded her of how much Denam had grown in the last year. When she had been under Ronwey, it was she who looked down on him - not literally, of course - for his inexperience; now he made her feel her size: small, fragile, delicate, young, even. "M-Maybe you may even think of Coritanae as your home someday." Her bold declaration about the city she was soon to castellan was ruined by her stutter; such directness was not a part of her personality. She knew red filled her cheeks, but Denam seemed to think on the words and ignored her tease.

"A home isn't a home unless it's shared with those you care for." He looked up from her into the sky for a moment and closed his eyes in thought. "It's just a place to live otherwise. . ." In an instant he looked back down to Ravness with a playful smile on his features. "I never thought you such a romantic."

To her horror, Ravness felt herself giggle in some self-satisfied pleasure, unlike anything she was familiar with. She caught herself in an instant; never before would she have thought herself like those childish young women who fawned over their partner of choice. "Oh please. I could say the same of you, former-commander." Her tone was equally playful, even if she did see a subtle flash of darkness at her use of the title. "You sit on the ramparts, alone, the sun setting in the distance, lost in thought, conflicted about life; I can think of no other scenario would more perfectly fit into theatre."

"Then what would that make you?" He played along with her, but understood her intent. They were done for now, he could not sit about and continually go in circles about his conflicts forever. He had to face them and move on; Ravness had given him new ideas to think on. At the very least, she had told him that she accepted him, no matter who or what he was. He had done the same for her, she at the very least owed him that much. Denam did not release her as he walked with her down the stairs into the castle and out of the fresh air, which no longer felt so brisk against her skin; quite the opposite, her entire body radiated and shared her warmth with the man.

"That's enough flirting, you two." Denam and Ravness almost jumped away from each other at the accusatory voice of Sherri Phoraena, whose dry tone and bored expression said she likely knew where they had been only moments before and what they had been doing. The Phoraena had simply waited within the walls where 'twas warmer while they spoke against the falling sun. Ravness made note to thank the woman later, anyone else would have interrupted them. "Her Highness is going to have a fit if you don't dress yourselves for dinner." She scolded gently, her face barely made any effort to hide its smile.

"We'll speak later." Even Denam had a faint blush that he was quickly worked under his control. He nodded to Sherri with grace that Ravness doubted she could muster in such a short period before he rushed with uncharacteristic speed down the hall; an angry Catiua was not something he had any intention of facing and the Valkyrie certainly did not blame him. "And Ravness. . .thank you." Said woman smiled and nodded, but she was not sure if he saw either in his hasty exit. He may not have been able to come to terms with everything yet, but perhaps, she hoped, she had helped him take the first step. Unintentionally, Ravness clutched her hand to her chest as she watched him walk away from her, unmoving, as if in a bubble or magic-induced daze. They were not so different after all - and that knowledge filled her with indescribable warmth, addictive, like a strong drug. Much like Denam himself, that.


	32. Together: DenamOlivya

While, theoretically, this could take place on all paths, I definitely wrote it with Chaos Denam in mind and a few comments and actions reflect it as such. It's purposely written as overly sweet, sappy, and cliche in order to give Olivya some happiness for once.

Given my utter lack of motivation, I hope this story is at least halfway decent.

_**Together**_

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><p>The nicest of days were always ruined by the sourest of people.<p>

Denam Morne nodded pleasantly at his employer as the man rattled on continually about the extent of his problem and the importance of Denam's mission. He had heard it all before, on three separate occasions at this point, but kept the feigned smile on his face and nodded when he felt was necessary in order to give the paranoid merchant some confidence in his chosen sellsword. The man barely seemed to register Denam's presence in his continued rants as he paced about the room. Sweat formed on the Xenobian man's brow that gave his skin a light sheen over his rather oversized body from the almost-oppressing warmth of the sun through the specially-built skylight on the roof. The Xenobians of the city simply were not as tolerant of heat as Valerians were; Denam found the weather to be pleasant.

"I understand, sir." Denam barely held back his annoyance, but could not be bothered to mask it with a responsible tone and his words came off somewhat belligerent and impatient. The merchant most definitely would have noticed the Valerian's impatience; one did not get to his social class and standing within the merchant's guild without experience in reading facial expressions or tone, even if he was too far into his own rant to even care to look at Denam.

"It must be done within the week." As if to emphasize his words, his employer pounded his right fist into his left open hand after every other word, no doubt as a subtle response to Denam's insolent tone. For the large sum Denam was to be paid for his assignment, the merchant seemed incredibly dismissive; he still did not bother to look towards the Valerian, but instead picked up what Denam knew was called tobacco and put it into his mouth. The drug was used primarily by the wealthy and was apparently relatively new to the region; it was not quite widespread on the Valerian Isles, other than some of the nobility, primarily former-Galgastani, so the first time he saw and smelled it up close was in Xenobia.

"Within the week." Denam nodded his confirmation to the merchant, who had finally stopped his paces and sat down into the depths his large, red chair, fine and deep, at his desk. Noting the meeting seemed to be over by the large man's lack of response, Denam walked over to his patron and held out his hand in an offer of goodwill and trust; the merchant looked down at the Valerian's glove, comfortable and well worn, and his lips turned up in a disgusted sneer before he turned away. Instead of returning the gesture, the elder man motioned towards his personal female assistant with the wave of a hand. The woman, if she could even be called such at her age, wore next to nothing and dug through a nearby box and pulled out a rather large satchel. She walked over to Denam with the item in her hand and held it out to the Valerian, as 'twas apparently a gift. Denam held his hand out in confusion as the woman dropped it; its weight surprised him, and he had to grasp firmly before he accidentally dropped it on the floor. Denam immediately knew it held an extremely large amount of coin that was apparently the first part of his pay. The amount staggered him - definitely more than he had ever received from a single job before.

Denam nodded at the woman and again to his employer, but could not help but feel a wave of disgust; the man had thought Denam money hungry and misinterpreted his respectful handshake as a request for pay. The meeting was obviously over, no matter Denam's opinion on the man, and he recognized his dismissal. Without another word, the Valerian placed the very heavy coin sack into his satchel and turned on his heel to leave. He was obviously not wanted there, and he did not wish to remain in the lavish, gaudy room, either.

As soon as he passed through the door, the thick smell that previously permeated the air disappeared and Denam drew in a long breath. The man used far too much incense for his own good. The Valerian nodded to the merchant's personal guards as he passed by and walked through the large central hall; the floor almost glowed with the light reflected from the high windows, and his boot steps echoed almost as if they were an invader in the serene, peaceful manor. There were many strange artifacts from cultures Denam had never even heard of, let alone knew about; he was almost tempted to look about in curiosity at some of the exotic trinkets, only stopped by the firm glare of the guards that he almost literally felt bore a hole into his back.

Denam's assignment was simple: "deal with" a group of brigands who continually caused problems for the merchant who employed him. The Valerian was not the first who had been employed for the job, but the others never returned and the activities never stopped; 'twas easy to assume what happened to them. Denam had been in the city for long enough that he had earned some reputation for being both skilled and good on his word. With no inflated ego, he could admit that he was one of the best mercenaries in the business for his incredibly reasonable prices, despite his obvious status as foreigner; one of his former employers had apparently put in a good word and the rich merchant had summoned him to do the job many others had failed. Either his reputation preceded him or the merchant wanted him dead - Denam wouldn't have been surprised in the least at the latter, for the amount of times he had disrupted smuggling runs absolutely had to have hurt _some_ merchants' businesses.

Denam's mood immediately lightened as he exited his employer's manor and the shadowy building gave way to bright sunlight and blue skies. The merchant chose to live on the edge of the nobility quarter and the commons, as it gave him easy access to both social groups he did business with. Denam himself had no home in Xenobia, though he did have prolonged residence at a favored Inn near the central portion of the city alongside his companion, Olivya. The Inn was not extremely expensive, but 'twas more than accommodating for both he and Olivya. They had long since gotten over their nervousness and insecurity around each other as they had spent more time together. Even though Olivya was often far too modest and shy, the atmosphere in their shared room was comfortable and their relations amiable. Denam had, for the most part, shrugged off her nervousness around him; he and Catiua had grown up together, after all, he knew what women looked like under their dresses and did not need to peek into the other room like some lecherous drunkard. At first Denam had tried to convince his friend about how foolish she was for her fears, but that had only served to turn her face redder. No matter how much he promised he would not look when she bathed, Olivya still wouldn't do it while he was in their chambers. The Valerian man found it ridiculous, but eventually he gave in; she was a Sibyl after all. Even if the Phoraena woman officially left her position in the church, the chaste habits were not easily given up. She would always serve the Great Father in her heart and continued to volunteer her time to churches wherever they went. Even though she brought in no income of her own, Denam did not mind; she cared for his wounds, both physical and mental, and he respected her desire to help those who could not help themselves. There was more to their mutual responsibility than money.

Denam kept his eyes on the shadows as he moved through the bustling city streets. Olivya waited for him, as she always did, and she would not tolerate him being late; a scuffle with the gutter scum certainly would not do at all. The first thing Denam learned when he arrived in the city - far larger than anything on Valeria, even Heim - was that the life of a foreigner was not easy. Hostility was rampant, as was xenophobia from the more closed-minded. Denam had grown up in Golyat, which was a port city that thrived off of trade. Foreigners were expected, welcome even. Xenobia was different; while many were respectful and distant, others often showed open distaste for him. It also made him the perfect prey of those who dwelled in the dark recesses of the city. In his first scale in Xenobia alone, he had been beset upon by thieves of all types on at least eight separate occasions, much to Olivya's considerable consternation and worry. Now that the Valerian knew his way around, and more importantly, knew where not to go, the attacks happened much less frequently, but Olivya's fretting still hadn't stopped. As long as he stayed quiet, he could pass as a native; his clothing may be of local style, at the Phoraena woman's insistence, but his accent and manner of speech immediately alerted anyone in a few pace radius that he was not Xenobian.

It was not long before Denam made his way into the busiest sector of the city - the trading center. Merchants, traders, and customers of all types gathered here all day long to propose business agreements, peddle their wares, or buy their food for supper. Even Denam, a man who usually left the shopping for Olivya, found he could get lost, distracted, and spend the entire day in such a place. This day was no different and progress more than a few paces at a time was a battle of its own; he had to push and shove his way through, all at the same time that people pushed and shoved at him. With the heat, Denam could smell the odor of the bodies around him and he did his best to keep his nose from cringing in disgust; he had bathed in the morning, and had just come from a relatively cool building, so he was not sweaty, but if he had to continue through the crowd, no doubt he would be just as dirty and hot as these men and women within half of an hour. There was nothing he could do about it other way but endure; the Valerian man simply continued to push his way through the mass as quickly as he could as his eyes quickly assessed each stall, cart, and wagon for anything he or Olivya might need, such as food, herbs, or supplies. There was most likely nothing, but being a sellsword had taught him the utter importance of self-reliance and preparation. He would not have an Archer to watch his back, or a Cleric who healed him. He had to rely only on himself in battle and needed to have the best of supplies at all times; it was a difficult profession, but also very satisfying, if in a different way from his previous lifestyle.

Denam's eyes stopped near the far edge of the area, where a large stall, permanent, sat in the partially in the shade. The merchant obviously owned the space and brought its wares to market every day. Denam knew that stall. The Valerian stopped quickly in the middle of the bodies and ignored the way they roughly pushed past him as he quickly tried to remember where he had seen the stall before. It came to him quickly; he wondered why he remembered it at all, it was so insignificant. Though he had never shopped there himself, in the past Olivya had spent some time looking through the wares of that particular, shaded stall. There were very few of the type in the area, and even fewer could afford three separate guards which looked to be hired more to intimidate than actually be effective in battle. The owner was likely rich enough that he or she had a business elsewhere in the city, but peddled their wares during the busiest hours of the day for the most exposure. Denam was attracted to the stall and it took him only a few seconds to realize why: Olivya wanted something from it. Olivya may have not realized she did it, but she always longingly looked after a certain piece of jewelry. She would never request the item, of course, as the Great Father did not approve of such things on his servants, but Denam knew the former-Sibyl desired it anyway - whatever _it _was that she wanted_. _Denam had only watched the Phoraena shop from a distance, close enough to keep her safe in an emergency, but far enough to give her the space and freedom she desired. All he saw of the trinket was its general shape and color: a pendant, with a deep blue gemstone smaller and much darker than the necklace he still wore, and with a durable silver chain.

In truth, Denam was not one for such gifts. He was a practical man and the most he usually brought back to Olivya was herbs, dinner, and rarely, rare flowers that he intended her to use in potion creation. But something within him felt differently this day and his urge for change was almost unmistakable. She had been so good to him; he felt he should at least do _something_ in return. Denam could not keep his eyes off the stall as he remembered Olivya's strange fascination and, before he knew it, his feet moved themselves and he slowly approached the jewelry merchant.

He really should stop lying to himself. In truth, Denam walked by the stall every day, and this same conflict arose. The difference was, never before had he felt such pressure to approach; he found that he could not stop himself, even if he wanted to. He did not know if 'twas previously nervousness, shyness, or his lack of understanding of the products that prevented him before, but all of that was gone in an instant of boldness that was not for his sake, but his companion's. Denam felt liberated, but he certainly did not know from what, nor could he fathom the reason why the day was any different from any other. He told himself that 'twas likely because he had just received such an important job, but the more rational part of his mind whispered with utter confidence about it being an aftereffect of the warm glow he and Olivya had felt in their private dinner the previous night, an addicting feel he could not live without. Even the dinner had not been different than average, but something had been so right – so perfect, so peaceful, something he would have given the world to have for the rest of his life. He was hesitant to compare the Phoraena woman to a drug, but his reliance on her went far beyond the simple poultices and meal preparations. Every day she would smile at his return, and fuss over his health and well-being in an almost identical way to Catiua, but more recently it had become different with the Phoraena. Or perhaps it had always been that way, he simply never noticed.

His steps were frequent at first, but as he approached the stall they became more hesitant; he did not know what to say or do, how to treat a merchant of such trinkets, or what to look for. He knew he could not turn back, the woman had already noticed him and his approach, so he clenched his jaw and did his best to appear determined and curious, like any other confident customer. The moment he was in range she struck, her prey upon her. Denam knew immediately that the merchant would be incredibly persistent in her attempt to sell him a piece. "Good day, Sir." The woman was completely respectful, though the Valerian knew she sized him up in her own subtle way. She was not openly disgusted, but Denam could tell she seemed to believe that Denam was not well off enough to shop at her business. If only the woman knew how much Denam had in his satchel, he mused sardonically. "Is there something you're looking for in particular?"

Denam nodded, but his lips refused to respond to his commands. His tongue twisted, his mouth dried and his breaths caught in his chest. He looked like a bloody fool; he had faced death countless times in the past, and likely would in the future if he continued with his current profession; none of that stopped him before. Shopping for Olivya was a different matter entirely, not nearly as important as fighting for his life, yet still a challenge in a way he could not have expected. He only had one chance to give her the gift she wanted, he could not disappoint her. He _would not_, he corrected himself. Denam took a deep breath in attempt to calm himself and, belatedly, replied. "A pendant. Silver, darker blue stone encrusted in it. Not too large." His description was vague, and likely a well-stocked merchant would have multiple of similar type, even if all not identical. To his surprise, she nodded immediately.

"I know the one." Her previous smile turned downward and though she did not quite sneer, he could tell the look waited just below the surface. "A popular piece with foreigners, it seems." That was _definitely_ a sneer. It seemed she remembered Olivya's interest in it, if 'twas indeed the same pendant the Phoraena desired. "Unfortunately, I sold it almost a week ago."

"I. . .oh." Denam deflated, a reaction in no way caused by the woman's blatant hostility towards foreigners. The strength he had barely mustered earlier melted away when he realized the necklace Olivya wanted so badly was already gone. He had acted too late; if only he hadn't hesitated! He should have gotten it after his last assignment, yet the thought had barely crossed his mind, then. She had eyed for it for well over a scale at that point and he had plenty of coin then, he could have afforded it. Instead he had simply looked on at the stall like a fool, and now the chance was lost. He should have been angry at himself, but all he felt was despair.

"If that is all. . .?" As Denam stood there in his uncertainty, the woman's irritation grew. She impatiently tapped her fingers against the wood of her stall and clipped her tone in a way that told Denam that he was not welcome if he was not going to buy - and even if he did buy, he was still not entitled to the same privileges as a native. Her reaction was not entirely unexpected, but unwelcome. He frequently encountered such hostility, and it made his bartering power with these already-strict merchants nearly non-existent.

"No, no, I wish to browse your inventory." Denam sighed. He could not just return empty-handed, not after the internal debate that he had finally cleared up within. He wanted to buy Olivya _something_, but Great Father only knew what.

The woman laughed. "I assure you, _Sir_, that you cannot afford my wares." The title no longer held respect, but was used as mockery.

"We'll see." The Valerian snapped in return. He was half tempted to walk away, as any proper consumer would at such treatment, but the more stubborn part of his mind wanted to best the woman and prove her wrong in every regard. He was being childish, but apparently his bluff worked and the Xenobian fell silent, but she practically clung to Denam in order to make sure he did not steal any of her wares.

The first thing Denam noticed was how terribly gaudy most of the jewelry was. Most were hideously large and meant simply as a show of social status. Olivya would not want such pieces, he believed, though he was not quite sure where the thought stemmed from. She had liked silver and she always preferred blues in her clothes - it reminded her of water, she had once told him - best stick with what took the least assumptions. He felt simpler was better; the baubles were lovely, but went out of fashion quickly; he wanted something that would stand the test of time, that Olivya could wear forever, that she could pass onto her children.

_Great Father_, where had that last thought come from? Not that it was entirely unwelcome.

Denam shook his head. It was not that he had not thought about such things, children, family, the future - in fact, all of them meant more to him than anything else. He would gladly sacrifice himself for it. He just did not consider himself ready or willing for either; he did not have a steady home, his jobs were consistent and easy to find, and his income was stable, but no child should grow up with parents who lived the lifestyle he and Olivya did. Denam had to stop that particular train of thought before it went any further. He liked Olivya. If he was brutally honest with himself, he would admit he loved her and relied on her in most every aspect in his day to day life. If she disappeared someday, he did not know what he would do. Even still, the thought of children with her was far too much; even if he was of age to sire babes, even if Olivya was the ideal mother, kind and firm, loyal and skilled, if a bit stubborn, it just wasn't time.

Everyone else seemed to believe 'twas time, however, and when he had met with Gildas and Canopus over their cups when he first arrived in Xenobia, they had pestered him constantly about Olivya and why she traveled with him. At the time, Denam had given no answer beyond "she wished to follow," and he had felt nothing more for her than warm companionship. They'd been together more than two years since then; circumstances had changed. When before there had been stiffness and discomfort, there was now release and relaxation. Whenever Olivya was gone, it felt as if a part of him departed as well. Denam was not in denial; he knew what it meant, what his affection represented. He did not question that Olivya felt similarly, she had left her family to be with him, after all.

"What is the cost of this ring?" It had taken him almost twenty minutes, lost in his thoughts, to pick out what he desired. None of the necklaces were right, none of them felt like Olivya. A ring _fit_. Perhaps she might misinterpret his motivation as more romantic than intended; or perhaps he truly did mean to give the ring to her on the utmost of devoted terms, he was unsure. 'Twas no matter either way, the ring was perfect. He believed it shared the same color scheme as the necklace she had enjoyed, with a silver band and deep blue gem - he could almost hear Catiua's voice in the back of his mind lecturing him about how inappropriate it was for a man who has romantic interest in a woman one a ring made of any metal but platinum or gold.

In response to Denam's question, the woman laughed again. It was not pleasant, but one of mockery and contempt. When she saw the stubborn look in the Valerian's eyes, the laughter fell away. "2,000 copper. We do not take leases or trades." She had a stubborn look to her; there would be no bargaining. With that cost, Denam should have walked away in an instant, but if he did, he did not know if he would ever find such a perfect ring again. Olivya seemed fond of this merchant as well. In truth, 2,000 copper was not a large sum for him, even with his inconsistent employment. If one thing was for certain, being an adequate sellsword paid very well - in Gold, nonetheless! He used copper mostly for food and silver for weaponry and clothes or armor. He primarily used his gold to pay the Innkeeper. Even still, he would have to work extra to make sure he could afford everything necessary and still have coin left for an emergency; there would be no days off this scale if he chose to buy the ring, but Olivya's smile was worth it.

With a nod, Denam pulled out the small sack of money he had just received for the merchant and picked a few of the gold coins out and placed onto the counter two at a time, in small separate piles. He watched with no little satisfaction as the woman's mouth worked in attempt to form words at his precise, determined motion. She looked like a dying fish for a good minute before she finally started to count Denam's small gold coin piles in silence and mark them off in a tally. They stood in silence for some ten minutes after Denam counted off his coins and the woman looked them over and carefully tested them for their legitimacy. He preferred slow and accurate to fast and sloppy and he respected her thorough examination. He would have done no less in her position and it prevented potential legal trouble in the future.

Even under the shade of the woman's stall, Denam still felt the hot sun beat upon his back and the sweat sheen over his body; he desperately needed water and he knew he was late. Olivya would have a fit at how long it had taken him to return; hopefully his gift would pacify her to some extent. Simple bribery would not have worked on her in any other circumstance, but he had good reason for his absence. "Done." The woman finally declared. She looked as tired as Denam was; it seemed she had lied about taking coin-only, as she was obviously not used to such time consuming organization. Despite the madness of his stubborn refusal to leave, he felt a surge of self-satisfaction. He'd like to think the woman would not feel such disdain towards foreigners in her future sales, but her humiliation would not last long, he knew. Many foreigners were exiles, and most sellswords were men who cared only for money; Denam fully understood why one would be cautious around a man like him.

"I-I. . ." She clenched her fists, not in anger, but shock, as Denam put the small coin sack back into his satchel, still about half full of the funds he had earlier received from the merchant. "Very well, Sir." To the Valerian's surprise, her tone had changed. While it was not quite respectful, it was not longer full of mockery. "Please understand that I am unable to refund your purchase, however, with this -" the woman stopped for a moment and searched through a small trunk she carried with her, no doubt to and from her main business, every day, before she pulled out a rolled up parchment. "- you may bring the ring to our main store and get it fitted, if necessary." The Valerian blinked in confusion before the weight of her words fell upon him. Denam was such a fool; he may have felt the ring was perfect, but he had not even considered that it might be too large or too small. Fortunately, it seemed the jeweler had taken it into account for previous customers and it wouldn't be an issue even if sized wrongly – or so he hoped.

"Thank you." Denam curiously opened the parchment and read the contents. The writing was flowery and, in some cases, barely readable in its complex calligraphy, but it repeated, in more words, what the woman said, alongside giving an address for him to go to if necessary. It appeared that if the product was damaged in some way in its creation, the company's policy obligated they fix it. 'Twas good business sense, he had to admit, and if they lived up to their promise he could see himself shopping at the store again, rude clerk or no. Not all merchants were confident enough in their goods to give such promises.

"A pleasure, Sir." The woman nodded and took the ring from the table and placed it into a small, ornate wooden box that she had on the counter. The box alone would have cost at least a few silvers, with a complex design burned into the top. Of course, with how much gold he had just given her, she damn well better treat his product properly. As if to emphasize her point, she placed the small box into yet another small bag, silk and red, this time, before she handed it to the Valerian with a nod. Denam took it very carefully. His prize was far too precious to go inside his satchel, which he usually tossed about, so he kept it in his hands as he turned away.

The district was just as busy as it was before Denam took his short stop, but the Valerian barely noticed the ocean of bodies that surrounded him. He felt almost as if he was in a haze or a bubble, as if he was surrounded by a thick oil that warded off the outside world. He was happy, satisfied, and could think of nothing but Olivya. He would not quite call himself obsessed, but he suddenly very much understood why Vyce had acted so single-mindedly when it came to Catiua. The warmth overwhelmed him and filled him with a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment that he clutched onto and never wanted to let go. Even as he pushed his way through the bodies in the heat and finally reached the now-familiar street that led to the Inn where he and Olivya made their temporary residence, the tingly sensation remained, his mood almost euphoric.

The Inn was not cool, but not particularly warm, either. The midday heat had not permeated into it entirely, and the lack of sun on his back was a relief in itself. There were a few men who looked to be business owners in the lounge area meant for guests, but it was otherwise devoid of people, almost empty compared to the earlier chaos of the marketplace. Denam quickly glanced over to the reception area, where the Inn's patron sat, bored. She did not bother to say anything to Denam, and nor did he have to say anything to her; he was welcome and well-known, their relationship was strictly business-only and he kept his dues paid. He passed through the room in silence and into the back hall; Denam and Olivya's single, rather large, room was on the first floor. It lacked any view, but was generally quieter than the rooms on the second floor, as the sounds of voices from the central bar and guest area wafted through the floors. Their distance from the common room gave them peace and quiet during the night.

The hall was empty and Denam still clutched at his present as he slowly walked down, only half watching where he went as he searched through his satchel for his key, which floated loosely at the bottom somewhere. Before he could fiddle with the lock, he paused in a fierce hesitation. He had been so confident about his gift earlier, but as he stood on the precipice of giving it, he felt a chill. Would she like it? Was it the right decision? What would happen if she declined? Would she miss his gift's connotations, or would she ignore them - and what happened if she did? Denam was most certainly not the type of man to fuss over such things, he left that to Catiua, but some part of him felt that his hopes and dreams were going into his gift. He was not _quite_ proposing, but what he was doing was no less than being promised to her. Denam shook his head to clear his thoughts; he could not just sit around and ask "what if," he would get nothing done. If nothing else, Denam was proactive and would deal with Olivya's decision when it came.

Hesitation would only worry Olivya more and Denam pushed the door open carefully, as to not surprise the room's occupant. Immediately a harsh, sweet, but familiar smell filled his nostrils, very different from the tobacco and incense of the merchant's manor; Olivya prepared plentiful herbs for use by both him and those who went to the church for the illnesses. She was no alchemist or an apothecary, but she was skilled nonetheless. The smell had come to represent "home" for him.

"I'm back." Denam called as he pushed the door closed behind him and locked it. Their room, almost the size of a small house, was split into four parts, a very small entryway that opened into a moderately sized guest room, by far the brightest and fullest area of the room; Denam used the guest room as his own chamber, where he slept on the large couch and kept his belongings close, in the corner. To the side, separated by a wall, were the private chambers, it was only proper to give the woman the more comfortable room, which also was connected to another very small bath chamber, where he knew Sibyl no doubt was prepared her medicines. For an Inn room, it was considered very large, elaborate, elegant, and expensive – even moreso to rent. It was larger than many Walister houses he had known, and almost a size and a half of the average one. He had not realized how poor Valeria was in comparison to the larger countries and Empires; even though he was no longer of political rank, he still felt as if his social standing had improved in his move away from the Islands. Sellsword, a position not always looked upon favorably, or no, he lived far better than many Bakram in Xenobia than he ever had before. It had been a worry of his when he first left, how to take care of a noblewoman who had never lived in the conditions he had in Golyat after the attack, but his fears turned out unfounded.

As if on cue, as Denam finished removing his boots in the small entryway he heard Olivya's soft footsteps approach. They were slow and relaxed, very different from her normal rush to him, and Denam immediately understood the unspoken language as annoyance. Normally when he returned she was almost desperate to see him and make sure he was not ill or wounded, but her more subdued response showed that she was displeased at Denam's apparent "lie" that he would be back before midday, as he was only meeting with his next contact. Olivya was not the type to tap her foot on the floor in annoyance, or even glare, but he could tell by the pasted smile on her features and her body language - which she desperately tried to hide - that she was angry.

"Welcome back, Denam." Was it anyone else, he would have been annoyed at the way her tone bit into him, but he had no place speaking back in this matter – after all, he, too, had been angry when Olivya arrived back later than expected and had given her the same lecture that he had no doubt was about to be directed at him. Best grin and bear it, then they could both move onto more important things – like gifts. Olivya stepped close and looked him up and down before she very gently placed her hands onto his arm and channeled her magic through him, as she always did. The warmth could only be described as "Olivya;" her magic was precise, yet not as mature as more experienced healers. Her magic flowed like a stream through him as she searched for any wounds - it had become a routine for them, Olivya would search Denam for wounds and Denam, though not as skilled in Light as his companion, would do the same when she returned. Denam closed his eyes and allowed her to examine him as he breathed out his next words.

"You're too good to me." It was the truth, and he let a smile drift over his features as he let his guard down. He grasped at the silk-wrapped box in his hand nervously, but Olivya was too focused on her magic-based examination to notice a small fidget. Perhaps he should have been miffed that Olivya was so demanding, that she required him bend to her will on matters of his health - his body was his own, after all - but no matter how he rationalized his argument, internally he knew the Sibyl had the right of it. His work was dangerous, he could not afford recklessness. If he was even lightly wounded an infection could spread and incapacitate him for the rest of his life.

"You did not run into trouble, it seems." She removed her hand from his arm and met his eyes. Her smile was less forced than it had been when he entered, though he could see lines form on her forehead. She looked remarkably like her elder sisters in her rare, firmer moments. As she aged, the Sibyl lost the younger innocence she once held, replaced with a solemn firmness. Her time with Denam in battle had given her a personal strength she had not had before, one that allowed her not only to pursue her desires away from her family, but to experience life outside of the church's constraints. She had not rejected personal duty entirely, but nor did she allow it to rule her life without regard to her own desires. She continued her lecture. "You were gone far longer than. . ." Denam did not even bother to hide his exasperation as he cut her off. He was not angry, simply impatient and troubled. They needed to finish these traditional, habitual rounds before Denam went crazy.

"Do not fuss so. I'm fine." he was almost tempted to push past her, but decided against it as he very carefully placed his satchel on the ground beside him, his other hand still holding its treasure. "I even minded my business, as promised."

"I'm right to worry!" She snapped out in a way that reminded him far too much of Catiua. He did not normally compare her to his sister as often as he did this day, but some part of him desperately sought familiarity in the alien and worrisome position as he was in. He clutched deeply onto the comparison; Catiua was a woman he knew how to deal with, if Olivya acted like her, it gave him a sense of normalcy and an idea on how to progress. He almost laughed at his own foolishness; 'twas not as if he proposed to her this very day - _or so he thought _- a simple gift should not have caused him such discomfort and anxiety. There was that thought again: proposal. The Valerian man almost wanted to ignore it, but the idea continued to return and haunted him with persistence that alarmed him. He had just had the debate a short time ago; his feelings were mixed as to how he felt about their tenacity.

"No doubt." He replied cautiously. Disagreement would only make the woman angrier. She was right, after all, he risked his life every day when he went out for bounties or on jobs without her. But he certainly could not risk _her _life as well. His responsibility was to see her safe. Even if Mreuva and Olivya's sisters would never forgive him if anything happened to the youngest Phoraena, Denam would never be able to forgive himself. It would have torn him apart.

"Not a day passes when you don't scuffle with -" To his surprise, Olivya took another step forward and was so close that Denam not-quite pushed away from her just to have space to breathe. Her words amplified with her emotions, her jaw set stubbornly. This reaction was most definitely _not_ Catiua. She ignored his reaction completely and instead of turning away in her anger as she always did, she pushed right back up to Denam, so close that he inadvertently took a step back against the wall. Her presence was undeniably warm in the already-hot day and she smelled of the herbs of her favorite tea. With her so close, and the way her finger poked into his chest for emphasis and she looked up to him, he could smell the flowers that made up the wash of her hair.

"Olivya." Denam tried gently, unsure if her presence was meat to intimidate him or make him uncomfortable. To some extent, it did both. Yet again she spoke the truth: he did often scuffle with thieves and backstreet urchins who thought him easy prey - all were mistaken. 'Twas a rare day when he did not come back to their shared room without some dirt or blood flecked across his clothes, even if he no longer was attacked simply because he walked into back alleys he did not know to avoid. This was the first time Olivya had commented with such ferocity on the subject; normally she scolded him, but went little beyond that.

She seemed truly distressed - as if, just like his emotions, hers were confused about their relationship, but for entirely different reasons. What she felt about their lifestyle had been held back within her and finally burst through. Olivya was a resilient, patient woman, but not even she could remain steadfast forever. The two had avoided any serious argument or confrontation simply on the basis that such things were unpleasant and, while Denam did not think this would escalate, perhaps they both needed to be more open with each other. They might as well have avoided the truth, for all they did not confront each other about. Olivya was a basket of contradictions; there were times where he knew she was a changed woman, yet at other times Olivya was so quiet and submissive with him and his desires that it almost felt as if she had receded in personality. She was both easy to read and impossible to understand.

"Not to mention you - we!- are foreign! All blame for any unfortunate event is immediately placed on foreigners. . ." She changed the subject, as if her thoughts were so erratic that she lashed out with all of them at the same time, not sure where to begin.

"Olivya!" Denam spoke more firmly and loudly, but still the woman did not listen. In her anger, tears formed at the corner of her eyes, unable to express with words how much she worried. She trembled so fiercely that Denam could feel it against him, even with the short distance he had put between them a moment before.

"If you died, they'd just throw your body into a dark alley and-!" She did not quite sob the words out, but there was a gasp in there. The Phoraena refused to let her tears fall, but she turned her face away, unable to look at Denam any longer. The reaction pulled at Denam's core and it was not even empathy that allowed him to understand her despair, rather, his own distress at her sadness. She had held back for so long and, perhaps by sheer coincidence, both Denam and Olivya had both become upset by the stale state of their lives and their relationship - or lack of it. Neither of them were fulfilled, Olivya had left her family, friends, and people to be with him. Denam had left Valeria to see the world, to learn and experience his place in it - and to bring it back home with him. Had he done so? He had no answer, but he had dragged Olivya about in his pursuit, a thankless job he had barely even recognized the purpose of, or its results, himself. He felt like such a blind fool as he watched the woman who had given up everything cry before him – not for herself, or what she had given up, but in her pain at the thought that she would lose her only companion. He suddenly felt very small, very insignificant, and his "gift" so very pointless. He wondered if he had ever once even expressed his true feelings, or spoken to her about his – _their_ - plans for the future.

Just like his mistake with Catiua, he had pushed Olivya away because he took her presence for granted. But it was not too late, not yet. He recognized his mistake and he still had time to fix it. Even if he must take it one step at a time, there was but one option. Denam fumbled between them with his free hand until Olivya's fingers, which still remained forcefully on his chest and grasped it between his. Her trembles did not subside, and Denam had to hold back his own shake as he lifted her warm hand to his lips. Her skin was far softer than his, for his were long worn by his gloves and blade, and he kept his lips against her for far longer than was appropriate.

"You won't allow that to happen." He murmured against her skin; though her shakes had subsided in her surprise, she also stopped breathing and looked very much like a frightened doe. He could feel her tense at the unexpected action and Denam realized that, perhaps, he might have gone too far. Though there was no doubt in his mind that both wanted to continue, neither were sure where their boundaries remained. Denam knew that too cautious would upset Olivya more, to get her hopes up, but too fast would alienate her.

""I won't always be there -" Though her tears had stopped and her anger had almost instantly faded, she still sounded wistful as she scolded him quietly. All at once, Denam knew what he should do.

"Yes, you will." Denam drew her hand away from his mouth as he fumbled with his free hand to open the small box he had bought earlier. Olivya finally turned her face down, curious as to what Denam planned. The silk cloth fell away onto the ground, forgotten in an instant as Denam opened the fancy wooden box; the woman's mouth fell open as she saw what Denam had bought her. Before he could think on the magnitude of his next words, Denam spoke, with every emotion in his heart what he felt for the sad woman who was so close to him. In his words was the indescribable complexity of all his feelings, so thick that he almost sounded ready to cry himself, though he certainly was not. "I want to be with you. Forever." It was not a proposal, it was a promise. It was not a question, but an answer. For so long Olivya had given everything for him, 'twas his turn to give back. As he placed his ring on the middle finger of her right hand - most certainly not her ring finger - he noted it was too big. Neither he nor Olivya seemed to care and Olivya quickly withdrew her hand and held it against her chest in shock. She said nothing as her eyes widened and Denam felt the rest of strength wither away and he almost wanted to collapse from emotional exhaustion. His earlier boldness gone, he felt his stomach churn at his nervousness from Olivya's prolonged silence. Her lips were open in shock and moved to form words that would not come out. Denam spoke, or perhaps babbled would have been the better adjective, in desperate attempt to fill the silence between them. "I've nothing to give but myself, but everything I am is yours."

The Phoraena did not even blink. Denam wondered if she heard him at all. He could not tell from her expression if she was happy or sad, shocked and excited, or angry and horrified. It was a rare moment when Denam did not know what to say or do, where his plans fell apart in front of him, and where his relatively calm demeanor was shattered. Olivya's reaction pitted itself deeply into all of the cracks in Denam's armor and he felt his resolve fall away. He had never thought she would reject him, if that was even what she was doing. In his nervousness, Denam rambled on. "I-I know that Sibyls of your rank do not usually make such personal commitments, and I know this is not how these matters are done - I should have spoken to your father first - but. . ."

Before Denam could make any more of a fool of himself, Olivya released a quiet giggle and pushed against Denam with all of her weight until they both fell against the wall. "Oh, hush!" She cried out with what Denam believed to be laughter as she buried her face in his chest. Denam stiffly encircled her with one arm around her waist, and brought his other hand to her head, where he ran it through her long hair. He felt her tremor again, not only from her tears, but also from laughter. "The way you looked. . ." her tone was playful, if muffled, all traces of her earlier anger gone. "How could you even doubt me for a second?"

He had no answer for her; it _had_ been rather foolish, as he mused on it. Instead he simply held Olivya and enjoyed, just for a few moments, the peace he had waited years to obtain. After a moment, Olivya, too, glanced up at him. Her eyes, which had earlier held tears of fury, dripped tears of indescribable happiness, that Denam _finally_ understood, that he was ready to reciprocate her feelings, and that both were ready to pledge themselves for a better future. They still had a long way to go, many lessons to learn, many mistakes to make - but together, they would build their own path.


End file.
